


Into the Woods

by Spamberguesa



Series: Ettelëaverse [3]
Category: Tam Lin (Traditional Ballad), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fractured Fairytales, Mandos, Mood Whiplash, a wild sharley appears, all the things, ancient elf in modern earth, and not in the fun way, at least elrond's sane, but you can also be very fucking creepy, culture shock for everyone, everybody knows thranduil's there, fortunately thranduil is very lonely, fëanor you have no idea what wants to eat you, fëanor you really are not helping, grand theft ambulance, he's also just a teensy bit possessive, hi there von ratched, how not nice to see you, i mean i know you don't try but still, it just feels like it, just no, let's just say lasgaelen is a bit unique, lorna and thranduil should not write their own wedding vows, lorna is the queen of head wounds, lorna is too curious for her own good, mandos why, memory!sharley just wants to nom some elves, mental manipulation gone wrong, nice going thranduil, nice job breaking it thranduil, nor is it ready for you, not the end of the world, námo no, okay this time it really is the end of the world as we know it, provided sharley doesn't strangle you first, seriously you broke things, sharley you are why we can't have nice things, she doesn't see why that's so much to ask, snowpocalypse, that is not how you deep fry a turkey, there is no way this will end well, they just don't talk about him, those poor government goons, thranduil is displeased, thranduil just can't win, thranduil you are not ready for the dma, thranduil you can be sweet, thranduil you desperately need socializing, welcome to earth team elrond, why would you do that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 66
Words: 294,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4881490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spamberguesa/pseuds/Spamberguesa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern, <i>Hobbit</i> variation on the Scottish ballad "Tam Lin", and an AU of the Ettelëaverse, though you don't need to read any of the other stories for this to make sense.</p><p>Lorna, newly come to her sister's little town, hears far too many stories of (and warnings about) the forest at the edge of her granny's land. Naturally, she has to investigate, but gets more than she bargained for in what -- and who -- she finds there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Iontas

**Author's Note:**

> A modern variant of _Tam Lin_ , with Lorna as Janet and Thranduil as the titular Tam. AU of the Etteleaverse.
> 
> I recently ran across the Scottish ballad _Tam Lin_ , and of course my weird brain had to decide that would be a great AU of my already AU. Janet struck me as a very Lorna type of character, which naturally meant Thranduil had to be Tam Lin.
> 
> This was supposed to be a one-shot, but of course it ballooned, like every other goddamn thing I write. You don't need to have read any of the other _Ettelea_ stories for this to make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first time Gran warned Lorna about the woods, it was five days after Liam's funeral, and Lorna barely even heard her.

"Right, Gran," she said dutifully, staring at the smooth, bleached wood of a kitchen table far older than she was. At twenty-eight, she'd only met her Gran a week ago, but the old lady treated her as though they'd known one another all their lives -- it was a refreshing change from Mairead, who tiptoed around her, as though afraid she might shatter at any given moment. But then, she hadn't known her sister any longer than her granny.

"I mean it, allanah," Gran said, pointing a ladle at her. Though she was as small and wiry as her granddaughter, Lorna imagined she could do some fierce damage with it. "Lord Thranduil lives in those woods, and he'll brook no trespassers."

"Who in bloody hell is Lord Thranduil?" This was Ireland, not flipping England. Mairead had assured her that Gran still had all her marbles, but now Lorna wondered.

"He's one'v the Fair Folk," Gran said, dead serious. "You go that way, you'll come back with child -- if you come back at all. No one has in centuries."

Lorna felt the blood drain from her face. "Gran, that's not funny," she said, rising with difficulty and reaching for her crutches. She'd broken her right leg in the accident that cost her both Liam and her unborn child, and the blasted things were yet another reminder. Her dry eyes burned, but she hadn't been able to cry since Liam's funeral, no matter how much she wanted to.

Gran crossed the worn pine floor, surprisingly spry for a woman of ninety-three. "Sure God I’m sorry, allanah," she said, cupping Lorna's face in one callused hand. "I shouldn't've said that. Sit back down now and I'll make you a medicine."

Gran's 'medicine' was tea with a healthy dose of whiskey, which Lorna would gladly stick around for. The doctors had warned her to keep away from alcohol, but she and the bottle were old friends, and she could use all the friends she could get right now.

"The woods're on your land, Gran," she pointed out as she sat. "This Lord Thranduil's the trespasser, isn't he?" Surely her gran couldn’t be mad enough to actually _believe_ that.

"Was his land long before it was mine," Gran said, taking the copper kettle off its nail on the wall. "I leave him alone, and he leaves me alone. It's been like that as long as the family's lived here."

Maybe it wasn't madness. Every family needed its ghost stories.

\--

That night, lying in her narrow bed in what had been Mairead's guest room, Lorna stared out the window at the full moon. She and Liam had lived out of their van for so long that such a soft mattress felt uncomfortably alien, and made sleeping difficult -- not that she minded, for when she slept, she dreamt of the accident, over and over, felt the icy water of the Shannon trying to suck her into its depths.

What was she to do with her life now? Mairead seemed to think that eventually she'd settle down to normal, but for most of Lorna's life, 'normal' had been sleeping rough in a warehouse. She'd not even got her Junior Certificate at school, and she'd yet to hold a proper, legal job. She wasn't at all prepared for a world of 'normal'.

Mairead was so very different from the rest of her siblings. Mam had only been seventeen when she'd had her, so Gran had raised her -- she'd escaped Lorna's way of life, so they had next to nothing in common. It had come as a shock, if a good one, that she'd so readily opened her home to Lorna, though they'd never met before.

For that alone Lorna would try to adapt to 'normal', though she was enough of a realist to know that she might not succeed. Still, she owed it to Mairead to try.

\--

The second time Gran spoke of Lord Thranduil was in May -- an unseasonably warm and sunny May. Once Lorna's cast was off, she'd taken to wandering the fields, often aimlessly, marveling at all the green. Having grown up in the seedier side of Dublin, she and green were not well acquainted.

Since she hadn't yet got a job, she helped Gran quite a bit -- the old lady flatly refused to hire any help, bur family was another matter entirely. They were whitewashing the walls -- actual _whitewash_ , not paint -- with fresh air and sunshine streaming in through the open windows. 

"I hope your ramblings haven't taken you to Lord Thranduil's woods," Grain said, dipping her brush into the pail.

Lorna smiled. There wasn't much that could _make_ her smile, but Gran often managed it. "Of course they haven't, Gran," she said. "I'm not dead or up the yard, am I?"

Gran fixed her with a beady blue eye. "See that you don't. And for God's sake will you keep your hair out of the pail? You ought to pin it up." She touched her own braid, which was wound around her head like a snow-white crown.

Lorna looked at the end of her own braid; sure enough, a good two inches of the black had been soaked in whitewash. Mairead had been after her to cut it for months now, but Lorna wasn’t having with it. Both Mam and Liam had loved brushing it, so it was staying past her bum, whether Mairead liked it or not.

"Whitewash is good for it," she said. "Like conditioner."

Gran snorted, but made no comment.

\--

When Lorna went home that evening -- and how strange it was, to have a home -- she found Mairead had signed her up for bartending classes.

"Big Jamie says you'll not need a Leaving Certificate for that," she said, handing her the paperwork. "He's forever saying he can't keep staff -- they're all off to the city as soon as they've enough work history under their belt."

Lorna was genuinely touched. "Mairead, I've no idea how I'll ever repay you for all'v this."

"You're my sister," Mairead said. "I'll have no talk of payment." She sounded like just like Gran, though they looked nothing alike -- Mairead was tall and curvy, with a head of carrot-red, rampantly curly hair, and a face dotted with freckles. Her blue eyes were so like Mam's that sometimes it physically hurt to look at them.

"You'll start on Monday, so try to get some sleep the next few nights," she added.

Well, Lorna could try. She doubted she'd _succeed_ , but she'd try.

\--

On her first day of training, some idiot tried to grab Lorna's nonexistent bum, and she punched him so hard she dislocated his jaw and knocked out two of his teeth.

Big Jamie -- well over six feet tall, with a face as red as his hair -- burst out laughing, threw the idiot out onto the street, and clapped her on the back so hard he nearly drove the breath from her.

"You, I like," he said. "Who taught you that?"

"My old gang leader, Shane," she said, unspeakably relieved that _she_ wasn't the one who'd got the boot. "He'd done a stint in the Army -- taught us all sorts'v stuff."

"In here, you'll have use for that, from time to time," he said, still laughing. "You'll not abandon me for the big city, will you?"

"Sure God no. I grew up there, and I can't say as I'd recommend it."

"Good. Feel free to do that if any'v the drunks get rowdy."

\--

Her course took six weeks, and she was surprised to find how much she genuinely enjoyed it. Maybe 'normal' wasn't so bad after all.

Once she'd properly started work, she managed to go a whole week without actually hitting someone -- a bit amazing, considering how crowded the place often was in the evening. It was big and dark and smoky, for Big Jamie cheerfully ignored the law against smoking in pubs, and the village constables didn't seem to care.

The counter -- dark mahogany, slathered with what had to be an inch of varnish -- was too tall for her, so Jamie gave her a little footstool to drag around. Mixing the drinks wasn't exactly _hard_ , but she still felt a real sense of accomplishment when people liked how she'd made them.

But, perhaps inevitably, a fight broke out on the seventh night. Big Jamie wasn't on hand to break it up -- it was only her and Michael, a weedy lad of twenty-two, who looked as though a strong breeze would break him in half.

With a sigh, she hopped over the counter, squeezing between two patrons who seemed more interested in their Guinness than the fight. She had no idea who'd started it, or why, but the crash of breaking glass told her someone was smashing mugs.

She didn't recognize either of the men, but they looked like they could be brothers -- medium height, with dark hair and eyes the same shade of hazel. One of them had a large, bleeding gash on his forehead, while the other had already acquired a split lip.

"Out, both'v you," she said, grabbing the nearest and shoving him toward the door. Lorna might be little, but she was extremely strong -- not just for her size, but for a person in general, and the bloke seemed extremely surprised she could move him so easily.

"I'm not done with him!" the other one roared, and Lorna rolled her eyes.

"I didn't say you were," she said. "I said _out_. Your quarrel's your quarrel, but you'll not have it in here."

He made the extreme tactical mistake of grabbing her braid and yanking on it, hard. He started to say something, but she didn't give him the chance -- she released his brother, snatched up the nearest mug, still half full of beer, and brained him with it.

Beer steins were heavy things, and didn't shatter like they did in movies, but it _did_ drop him like a stone, and sprayed everyone within five feet with beer. She was going to have to wash the floor after closing, dammit.

There was a moment of silence, and then the crowd erupted with laughter.

When it finally died down, she said, "All right, you lot, here's the thing: I don't care what you do to each other, as long as you do it _outside_. I've done worse to people before now."

"What, a little thing like you?" someone asked. "What's the worst you can do?"

Lorna looked at him. "Let's just say I've done time for manslaughter, and leave it at that. You can ask Big Jamie -- he's got all my records."

Silence followed that. It wasn't normally something she would share, but in this business, it might be a help.

\--

People were suspiciously well-behaved for the rest of the night, but even when her shift ended, Lorna's veins were still singing with adrenaline.

Rather than walk straight home, she called Mairead to let her know she'd be in late, and went to wander the moonlit fields. She still hadn't got used to how pure and clear the air was, and even though it was well after dark, it was still rather warm.

It had been _ages_ since she'd lamped anyone out like that, and it felt absolutely wonderful. She felt practically giddy as her bare feet whispered over the grass -- she'd left her boots at the edge of the field, needing to feel the earth beneath her.

Eventually, her ramblings took her to the edge of the woods. She was honestly surprised that such a large patch of obviously ancient forest hadn't been chopped down ages ago. The trees were mostly beech and oak, so huge they had to be hundreds of years old. Surely they should have been cut down for firewood by now.

The canopy was so thick that only tiny shafts of moonlight pierced it, which left the interior unsettlingly dark. _Anything_ could be living in there. It was hardly wilderness, and yet it felt like it should be. One thing was for certain -- no _way_ was she going in there at night.

"Do you not get lonely?" she asked, feeling like a bit of an idiot. "I mean, really, you can only take being a hermit for so long, right? Maybe someday I'll fetch my guitar, and sing you a song. Everyone likes music, right?"

Of course she got no answer. Wasn't it odd, how old superstitions could last so lo--

She didn't have a chance to finish the thought, for she caught a pair of the palest eyes she'd ever seen watching her from the darkness. They were _human_ eyes, and yet…not.

Lorna ran like buggery.

\--

She didn't get much sleep, but by the next morning, she'd convinced herself it had been her imagination -- because really, what _else_ could it be?

She went down to the kitchen, which was both crowded and loud -- all four of her nieces and nephews were already at the table, inhaling pancakes and talking at cross-purposes. It meant that Lorna didn’t have to say anything while she ate her own breakfast, idly wondering how Mairead got her pancakes so very fluffy. She'd been trying to teach Lorna to cook, but Lorna still hadn't even figured out the vagaries of their gas stove, and so far it had been an exercise in futility.

The kids scampered out before she was finished eating, so she actually had a chance to ask, "How come those woods are still standing? Those've got to be some'v the oldest trees in Ireland."

"Nobody'd dare cut down Lord Thranduil's trees," Mairead said, plugging the sink and turning on the tap.

"You can't tell me you believe that." Lorna couldn't imagine sensible, level-headed Mairead buying into superstitions.

"The whole village believes it," her sister said, dead serious. "Stay away from those woods, Lorna. I mean it."

Lorna stared at her. Mairead didn't seem to be joking at all. "And how does anyone know he's there?" she asked. "Popped up and rung the bell, have they?"

"People go in, from time to time, looking for him," Mairead said. "None'v them have ever come out. You can't understand, not being born here."

"I guess not," Lorna muttered. _Weird._

\--

The next few days, she asked about it at work, always questioning why the woods were still sanding, and discovered Mairead was right: _everybody_ believed it. Even Big Jamie, who didn't look the sort to have any imagination at all, set down the mug he was wiping.

"No doubt you think we're all cracked," he said seriously, "being from the city and all, but it's true. Nobody goes near that place."

" _I_ did," she said, "and I'm fine."

He paled. He actually _paled_. "You shouldn't have done that," he said. "Don’t go back. Just _don't_. If he's seen you…."

"If he's seen me, _what_?" she asked, both amused and a little creeped out. "I didn't go _in_. He can't say I've trespassed, because I haven't."

"They say he walks outside the forest at night," Big Jamie said, and actually bloody _crossed himself_. Jesus, was it the Slender Man they were talking about here? "He might come looking for you."

Lorna snorted. "He can look all he likes. I'll choke him out with my braid." She'd actually done that once, so she knew it was possible.

Big Jamie just shook his head, and she decided she'd head out to those bloody woods her next day off, and prove to everyone that they really _were_ cracked.

\--

Monday morning, she cadged Mairead's digital camera, packed herself a lunch, and headed off into the sunshine. The whole summer had been ridiculously warm -- for the first time in history, they were facing a water-shortage, which boggled her. She hadn't thought that could be _possible_ in Ireland.

At least it made her walk pleasant. She'd head into the forest, snap some pictures, and be home in time for dinner. She just hoped there weren't any vicious animals, which was the only _real_ reason she could think of for going in and never coming out -- assuming that had ever actually happened, and wasn't just part of the superstition.

The woods were a lot more inviting during daylight. Having spent most of her life in Dublin, she hadn't really seen nature in person, and so couldn’t identify most of the green undergrowth, but it was still pretty.

Not that there was a lot to identify. The canopy being as thick as it was, the ground was mostly moss and stone and little else. Taking Mairead's camera from her pack, she snapped away, following the line of a little creek. There was nothing unusual to be seen for a good half mile, until she rounded a bend in the stream and found something that stopped her in her tracks.

Roses, thousands of them, red and white and pink, scaling the bark of half a dozen trees. What in God's name were _roses_ doing in the middle of an Irish forest? She didn't think they were native, but what the hell did she know? She'd take one to Gran, and get her opinion.

Picking a rose, she soon discovered, was not an easy thing, and she pricked the hell out of her fingers in the process. Eventually the stem snapped, and she paused to inhale its fragrance.

"Why have you taken a rose, little Lorna, and come here against my command?"

Lorna nearly jumped out of her skin, dropping Mairead's camera -- which, of course, cracked open as soon as it hit the stone. _Shit_.

She turned, and found herself confronted with the tallest man she had ever seen -- he had to be six-five, easily. His hair was long and silver-blond, his face like something carved from luminous white marble, and he wore some kind of flowing silvery robe that shimmered in the sunlight. His pale eyes, however, were a little too familiar.

"You are _fucking_ kidding me," she said. Her every instinct told her to run like hell, but she couldn't move. In answer, all she could say was the first thing that popped into her head: "It's my gran's land, I'll do what I want."

He arched one impressively thick eyebrow. "This has been my land since long before your people arrived. You trespass, little Lorna." His voice was rich and deep, his accent not at all Irish.

How the hell did he know her name? It wasn't a question worth sticking around to ask. "Uh-huh, well, I'll just see myself out," she said -- and booked it.

Or tried to, anyway. She hadn't got more than three steps before a long-fingered white hand clamped around her left arm with a strength that was honestly terrifying -- Jesus, he had to move faster than a snake. Her heart lurched, adrenaline flooding her veins and jagging along her nerves.

Lorna rounded on him, but he actually managed to catch her other arm before she could hit him, and holy shit, she was going to _die_ here, wasn't she?

"Kill me and I'll haunt you," she said, hardly aware of what left her mouth.

His expression was amused, not murderous, and though his grip was tight, it wasn't painful. "I will not kill you, little Lorna," he said, "if you sing me a song. You promised you would, did you not?"

That she had, though at the moment she couldn’t think of a single song. "Could you maybe let go'v me first? I think we've established I can't run away." This close, she could smell him -- something rich and spicy and alien, and far too distracting.

To her relief, he did, and she hopped up onto a tall boulder, feeling a need to close their height difference a bit. She couldn’t look at him and think, so she shut her eyes, and her brain actually coughed up a song.

_"If I ever leave this world alive_  
_I'll thank for all the things you did in my life_  
_If I ever leave this world alive_  
_I'll come back down and sit beside your_  
_feet tonight_  
_Wherever I am you'll always be_  
_More than just a memory_  
_If I ever leave this world alive_

She had a decent enough voice that she'd successfully panhandled with it and her guitar, and though her heart still thundered, she somehow kept it from wavering.

_"If I ever leave this world alive_  
_I'll take on all the sadness_  
_That I left behind_  
_If I ever leave this world alive_  
_The madness that you feel will soon subside_  
_So in a word don't shed a tear_  
_I'll be here when it all gets weird_  
_If I ever leave this world alive"_

It was easier now, focusing on the words, rather than on her currently unseen companion. She just hoped to God he'd let her out again when she was through.

_"So when in doubt just call my name_  
_Just before you go insane_  
_If I ever leave this world_  
_Hey I may never leave this world_  
_But if I ever leave this world alive"_

Liam had loved this song -- she'd sung it to him sometimes while they drove, since the van's radio didn't work. Her throat tried to lose with tears she couldn't shed, and she ruthlessly shoved it away.

_"She says I'm okay; I'm alright,_  
_Though you have gone from my life_  
_You said that it would,_  
_Now everything should be all right"_

When she opened her eyes, she jumped again. Thranduil had silently drawn very near, so near that she could see flecks of silver in his arctic eyes. Her perch was high enough that his face was close to hers, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath.

"Thank you, little Lorna," he said, tracing his fingers down her cheek. She ought to have slapped him for it -- she _really_ didn't like being touched by strangers -- but somehow it didn't occur to her to do so. His fingers were cool, and inhumanly smooth. 

"Can I go now?" she asked, her voice cracking.

"Not yet," he said, tracing his thumb over her jaw. "You have given me something, and now I will give you something in return."

Before she could speak, he closed the distance between them and kissed her, gentle and soft, his hand slipping through her hair to cradle the back of her head.

Lorna drew a sharp, startled breath, and he slipped his tongue between her parted lips, exploring her mouth with devastating thoroughness. He tasted like wine and spice and something else, something she suspected was pure _Thranduil_ , and while part of her brain told her there was something very wrong with this, the rest of it couldn't figure out _what._

She didn't protest when he stepped closer, standing between her legs, pulling her against him, his free arm wrapping around her back. Her hands came up to rest on the silvery brocade of his robes as he kissed her breathless.

Her vision was actually starting to darken around the edges by the time he let her up for air, his mouth traveling the line of her jaw. When he reached her neck he bit her just beneath her ear -- not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make her moan. _How_ could he know how much she liked that?

She felt him smile against her skin. He kissed his way down her neck, while his hands stole beneath her grey tank top -- such large hands, his fingers so long they could almost span the width of her back with just one. Lorna shivered as they trailed up her spine, his fingers pressing with just enough pressure to make her gasp and arch against him.

When he laughed, she felt it as much as heard it. "One moment, Lorna," he said, stepping back and shedding his robe. He had some kind of black, high-collared tunic beneath it, with about a billion tiny buttons, and once he'd draped the silvery fabric on a patch of moss, he went to work on them, watching her all the while.

This _was_ wrong, she was sure of it, but a strange, hazy warmth had suffused her mind, quite different from the heat of desire that pooled low in her belly. Her fingers itched to touch all that smooth porcelain skin -- she wanted to feel him, to _taste_ him, and from the heat in his eyes, it was mutual. She stripped off her tank top, leaving only the sports bra she didn't really need, her movements strangely drunken. Still, she couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious; she didn't just have the body of a pre-pubescent girl, she had a number of nasty scars from a lifetime of misadventure.

"You are beautiful, Lorna," Thranduil said, dropping his tunic carelessly onto the ground. He pulled her close, kissing her again, and she shivered at the feel of his skin against hers. Beneath her hands, the broad plane of his back didn't have a single blemish or imperfection, and she felt the shift in his muscles when he lifted her off the rock, depositing her carefully onto his robe. She'd never touched silk before, but that had to be what it was made of, for it was so very soft. 

Again Thranduil kissed her, deep and hungry, and Lorna moaned when his hand slipped beneath the waistband of her jeans, his long fingers stroking and teasing. The heat in her belly went up a few degrees, and she tried to arch into his touch.

"Patience, Lorna," he laughed. "We have time." He removed his hand so that he could take her bra off, leaving her exposed and uncertain.

He arched an eyebrow, pure wickedness in his pale eyes. "Did I not tell you that you are beautiful?" he asked, and his silvery hair whispered over her skin as he kissed his way down her sternum, unsnapping and unzipping her jeans as he went. He stripped both them and her knickers off in one disturbingly smooth movement, tossing her sandals out of the way.

Before she could say a thing, he gently parted her legs, and then his mouth was on her, and what little rational thought she had fled.

His hands gripped her hips with that terrifying strength, keeping her pinned in place while his tongue possibly worked literal magic on her. Normally Lorna wasn't exactly vocal during sex, but he had her whimpering inside of thirty seconds, his tongue unerringly finding the little bundle of nerves that made her try desperately to arch, lapping at her with the delicacy of a cat, with the occasional long, slow lick that left her writhing as much as she actually could. Her legs were trembling, and she was so close, _so close_ , but he didn't seem willing to let her over the edge.

"Oh, come _on_ , Thranduil!" she whined, barely resisting the urge to kick him in the back.

He laughed, but obliged her -- one last suckle and flick of his tongue was all it took, and she came so hard her vision actually went white, ecstasy firing along her every nerve like lightning. She keened, low in her throat, shuddering as aftershocks of pleasure sparked through her.

"Jesus goddamn _Christ_ ," she groaned. Her legs were so rubbery she doubted she'd be standing any time soon.

"Oh, I'm far from through with you, little Lorna," Thranduil said, and she'd swear his voice had dropped an octave. It actually made her toes curl into the silky fabric beneath her.

He eased two of his long, long fingers into her, stroking and exploring, thrusting slowly in and out, and _God_ , was he trying to drive her insane? He was finding places inside her she hadn't known existed, places that had stars dancing behind her eyes and sounds of almost animal _need_ spilling from her throat. 

He laughed again, very quietly, and bent his head to kiss her, not seeming to mind at all when she sank her hands in his hair, biting on his lower lip. The pace of his fingers picked up, fucking her hard and deep, but his kisses were light and almost chaste, and when he stroked something deep within her, her muscles locked up from the sheer force of her climax, drawing a ragged, guttural cry from her chest. That was -- that was -- she didn't even have _words_ for what that was.

She was still trying -- and failing -- to catch her breath when Thranduil scooped her up, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her onto his lap. "I would rather not crush you, little Lorna," he said, smiling down at her, and oh, he was beautiful when he smiled -- he was always beautiful, but just now he seemed far less remote.

Lorna couldn’t actually formulate a response -- all she could do was run her hands up his chest, and wrap her arms around his neck, letting his hair slip through her fingers like water.

He bent his head and kissed her even as he slowly thrust into her -- mercifully slowly, for it had been nearly a year since she'd last been with Liam, and Thranduil wasn't exactly lacking in that department.

His canyon-deep groan when he was fully inside her might just have been the sexiest thing she'd ever heard in her life, and the ragged exhale that followed made her shiver.

Thankfully, he waited a moment before he moved, and Lorna cried out when he did, her blunt nails digging into his back. His hair tickled over her shoulders as he kissed her again, his pace gentle but relentless, and Lorna didn't think she'd ever felt this beautiful, this _wanted_. It made her arch into him without thought or reserve or shame, craving every possible point of contact they could have, even as he thrust harder and faster and she thought she might honestly lose her mind.

He wound his hand in her hair, pulling her head back, and again bit just beneath her ear, thrusting exceptionally deep as he did, and Lorna nearly screamed, her nails scoring down his back, all but sobbing in her pleasure.

Thranduil buried his face in her hair, growling low in his throat as his movements became more erratic, until he thrust up into her one last, delicious time, groaning as he spent himself.

Lorna was still gasping when he gently laid her down on his robe, lying beside her and pulling her close. Her body was sheened with sweat, but his skin remained dry and smooth. His fingers played idly through her hair, stroking along her arm.

She knew she probably ought to say something, but she had no idea what. Sleep was already dragging her relentlessly downward.

\--

When Lorna woke, she was fully dressed, wrapped up in Thranduil's robe, and alone. And very, very sore.

She'd been asleep for _hours_ \-- it was fully dark, the faint light of the waning moon filtering through the trees.

Mairead was going to kill her. And not just for the camera.

Lorna was a terrible liar; if asked, she was going to have to tell her sister that she'd gone into the woods -- though she had no intention of mentioning that their owner had literally fucked her senseless. _That_ was private, thank you very much.

She pressed her face against the robe, inhaling deeply -- it smelled like musk and spice and _Thranduil_ , masculine and alien all at once. She wanted to take it with her, but that would be horribly rude, so she folded it as neatly as she could, leaving it on the bed of moss.

Wincing as she walked, she groped for the remnants of Mairead's camera, stashing the pieces in her pack before stumbling and tripping her way back to the forest's edge. Warm though the day had been, it was chilly now, and she hurried her way home under the stars. Jesus, it felt like she'd been reamed out with a damn hoe-handle; she needed a hot bath ASAP.

Mairead, predictably, was furious that she hadn't called -- but she paled when she saw the leaves in her sister's hair. "Lorna, where have you been?" she asked faintly.

"The woods," Lorna admitted. "I took some pictures, dropped your camera -- I'll buy you a new one, by the way -- and had a chat with Lord Thranduil. He isn't half creepy, too."

Mairead actually looked ready to faint. "He didn't kill you."

"Well, _duh_. He said he'd let me go if I sang him a song," Lorna said, grabbing a beer out of the fridge, "so I did. We talked a bit, I took a very long nap, and now I'm home."

Mairead still looked ready to keel over at a moment's notice. "I'll not have you going back there again, Lorna," she warned.

"I've no plans to." Except…part of her did sort of _want_ to. How strange it was, to have something so…so _supernatural_ so very near by. Maybe she would go visit Thranduil again someday, and bring her guitar.

\--

Lorna's next few weeks were too busy for her to think of going anywhere. As a means of earning a little extra cash, she helped the farmers bring in the hay on her days off, which left her exhausted enough that she slept easily.

By the time September came, her already dark skin was even browner, and she was feeling distinctly irritable. The smell of beer also turned her stomach, which made work a bit of a nightmare. It got to the point where it was actively making her sick, leaving her running for the toilets multiple times during her shifts.

"This is absolute crap," she groaned, rinsing her mouth out and spitting into the cracked porcelain sink.

When she opened the door, Big Jamie was on the other side. "Don't you look terrible," he said.

"I love you too," she snorted.

"Lorna, listen, if you're in the family way, I've got to hire someone for when you're off on leave," he said. "And whoever the da is, he'd best do right by you."

Lorna felt the blood drain from her face. "I can't -- oh, Christ," she groaned. "Well, this is a mess and a half." She'd already been knocked up once -- she ought to have recognized the symptoms herself.

"Who's the da, Lorna?" he asked, clearly ready to tear the man a new one.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she sighed. "I didn't think I could _get_ up the yard again."

"Lorna," he said again, "who's the da? I'm not old-fashioned enough to say you ought to get married, but he's got to stand by you anyway."

She glanced up and down the short corridor, then grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him into the Ladies', shutting the door behind them. "You've got to promise me you'll not breathe a word'v this to anyone," she said. " _Anyone_ , Jamie. The da, he's…he's not from the village."

"That's not helping, Lorna."

She grimaced. "I went and had a visit with Lord Thranduil a while ago," she said, "and evidently came out with more than I went _in_ with."

Amusingly enough, Big Jamie's reaction was rather like Mairead's. He staggered and sat down on the toilet, ashen-faced. "You -- are you _daft_? Lorna, he could have killed you!"

"Yeah, well, he didn't," she sighed. "If you really have to know, I sang him a song and we shagged like rabbits, okay? I didn't expect I'd have _this_ little complication. Mairead'll kill me."

"You're not -- _keeping_ it, are you?"

"Of course I am. I lost the first one -- I'll not lose this one, too." At least she'd got a baby, and not some supernatural STD. Would Elf herpes make you break out in glitter? Probably.

Big Jamie swallowed. "Lorna, Lord Thranduil's not _human_ ," he said. "Who knows what carrying this child will do to you?"

"I'll just have to find out, now won't I? Remember, Jamie -- not a word. To anyone."

\--

Lorna was smart enough to get Mairead drunk before she dropped _that_ bomb on her, careful to disguise the fact that there wasn't any alcohol in her own mixers.

The kids had gone to bed, and Kevin was watching TV in the lounge, so the pair of them sat on the back deck, watching the sunset. There was a bit of a bite in the night air now, and Lorna sat wrapped in a fluffy red afghan.

"Lord Thranduil knocked me up," she said -- unfortunately, just as her sister was taking a sip of her Mai-Tai. Pink liquid went shooting out her nose, and she broke into a hacking cough, upending the drink all over her lap.

Oops.

" _What?_ " Mairead demanded, still coughing.

Lorna sighed. "Lord Thranduil knocked me up. I've got an alien baby, like Scully on _The X-Files_. Except getting mine was a lot more fun."

Mairead stared at her, helplessly. "Lorna…." She started, but trailed off. "I ought to _strangle_ you."

"Why?" Lorna genuinely wondered.

"Because… _because_. Lorna, you can't just go shagging the Fair Folk and not expecting any consequences!"

"I cannot _believe_ that just came out of your mouth. I'll be _fine_ , Mairead. I've got another chance to be a mam."

"To a child who won't be human," Mairead pointed out.

"It'll be _half_ human," Lorna said. "And it can go have play-dates with its da, or whatever, if he's interested."

Mairead buried her face in her hands.

\--

Big Jamie must have kept his word, for no one else looked at her like she was a dead woman walking. 

What was hilarious -- and rather touching -- was how solicitous and overprotective every single bloody patron became, as soon as she began to show -- which, at her diminutive size, only took another fortnight. The men were especially bad about it; apparently, even the worst reprobates were hard-wired to look after pregnant women. They wouldn’t let her lift _anything_ \-- they even cleaned up the tables after themselves, and Mick, the man she'd lamped out with a beer mug, often stayed after, to help her mop the floor.

It was surprisingly easy for her to put off naming the father, though she didn't trust that to last once the kid was actually born. She'd planned to keep it to herself as long as she could -- a plan that was dashed to pieces when the man himself strolled brazenly into the pub.

He wasn't wearing the robe this time -- now he had on a long black coat, high-collared like his tunic, his silvery hair free. Lorna nearly dropped the bottle of vodka she was holding.

The general murmur quieted as everyone regarded this stranger -- this very _strange_ stranger. She doubted anyone would know who he was, give than she was apparently the only one who had seen him and lived, but he was imposing as hell.

"And here was me thinking you were meant to be sneaky," she said, setting down the bottle. "This isn't exactly sneaky."

"You did not come back," he said, arching an eyebrow and taking a hastily-vacated seat at the bar.

"I didn't know that you wanted me to," she retorted. "Anyway, I've been busy. And _pregnant_ ," she added pointedly.

He smirked. "I _did_ say I would give you something, did I not?"

"I didn't think this was what you had in mind," she said dryly. She was surprised at how very glad she was to see him, and not just because he was so easy on the eyes. She'd wondered about him quite a bit since that day. "D'you want a drink?"

"Your people have not made decent alcohol in centuries," he said. "Once you have had your child, you must taste some of my wine."

Now it was Lorna who arched an eyebrow. "I think I already did," she said. "Wouldn't say no to more, mind you."

"Lorna, is this the bloke what knocked you up?" Michael asked.

"That would be him," she said, still looking at Thranduil. "Up to you whether or not they know your name yet, mate."

"But they do know my name," he said, taking her right hand -- it looked positively tiny in his own. "They've known it for hundreds of years."

Some bright (or at least, sober) spark must have worked that out, for there was a sharp gasp, and the scrape of a chair as somebody scooted away.

"Walk with me tonight, Lorna, when you are free." There was a strange, almost wistful _yearning_ in his pale eyes, and she wondered if he really was lonely.

She smiled. "Okay. But I've got to ring my sister first, or she'll have the bloody Guarda out looking for me."

He returned her smile, kissed her hand, and left without looking at anyone else.

There was quiet for a moment, and then Alec, twin of Mick the Drunk, spoke. "Lorna," he said, sounding both shaken and pained, "tell me _Lord Thranduil_ isn't the father'v your sprog?"

Lorna pinched the bridge of her nose. "I can't, because he is. I didn't think he'd ever come _here_ , though, because I thought he didn't do that."

"He doesn't," old Orla said, crossing herself. Her blue eyes were wide with real fear. "You…and him…?"

Lorna rolled her eyes. " _Yes_ , me and him. Jesus, d'you want _details_ or something?"

"I could stand to hear a few," Dai said, and grunted when someone elbowed him.

She smirked. "I'll give you just one to chew on: the things that man can do with his tongue shouldn’t be _legal_."

She had to fight not to laugh at old Orla's expression, which went from fearful to thoughtful.

\--

Lorna carefully didn't tell Mairead _why_ she'd be out late -- just that she would. Once she'd closed up shop, she found Thranduil out back, patiently waiting.

"You're lurking without a permit," she said, and took his arm when he offered it. The air was downright chilly, but a walk would warm her up.

"I do not know what a 'permit' is, but it sound unpleasant," he said. "There is too much stone in your village, Lorna. I don't like it."

"How did you know my name?" she asked, looking up at him. In the moonlight, he almost seemed to glow.

"Lurking," he said, a little smugly, "without a permit. You intrigued me, the night you visited the edge of my forest, and I followed you home."

"Because _that's_ not creepy," she said, shivering a little.

"I could hardly court you if I did not know your name."

She halted, dragging him to a stop as well. " _Court_ me?" she asked. " _Why?_ "

There was a thread of sorrow in his pale eyes. "Nobody has ever offered to give me something without expectation of anything in return."

"What, _never_?" She didn't know how old he was, but it had to be at least a few hundred years. That was _appalling_.

His lips twitched into a humorless smile. "I have been given many gifts to appease me -- to keep me where I belong. No one has ever gifted me anything simply because they wanted to."

"Okay, first off, that's horrible, and second off, as soon as I learn how to cook, I'm baking you a pie. I'd say let's go get drunk, but I'm off the stuff until I pop this kid out."

Thranduil actually laughed, and she couldn't help but smile back. "I look forward to both," he said.

"Good. You can't beat booze and pie, especially together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pie, naturally, is a reference to Lee Pace's role on _Pushing Daisies_. I don't own the song Lorna sings -- that's "If I Ever Leave this World Alive" by Flogging Molly.
> 
> Title means "surprise" in Irish. Drop me a review and tell me if this is worth continuing or not.


	2. Scéalta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil and Lorna get to know one another a bit better, he pays another visit to the village, and she gets a very large shock.

Thranduil, Lorna soon discovered, walked too damn fast. Chilly though the night was, trying to walk so fast was making her break a sweat.

“Will you not slow down? I’m a foot and a half shorter than you, _and_ I’ve got a cantaloupe in my gut,” she grumbled.

Slow he did, and quirked an eyebrow at her. “A cantaloupe?” he questioned. 

“That’s what it feels like. It’ll be a watermelon before long, and I’ll be waddling like a duck. I already have to pee every five minutes.” According to Mairead, that would only get worse, too.

“I did not realize Edain pregnancies were so…uncomfortable,” he said, sounding a bit disturbed.

“Edain?”

“It is what my people call yours,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him, breathing in his spicy-rich- _Thranduil_ scent. She still couldn’t put any name to it; it was musky and heady and could make her dizzy, if she let it. 

“Are there others like you, in your forest? Nobody’s actually told me much about it.”

“No,” he sighed, his fingers playing over her arm. “The rest of my people are long gone to Valinor, but I could not forsake this world. I have dwindled, but still I live.” 

That…was pretty goddamn horrible, actually. “So you’ve been alone for what, centuries?” The mere thought…actually hurt, a little. She could all too easily see him wandering alone in his towering forest, cut off from the world outside.

“Millennia, now,” he said, taking the end of her braid in his fingers. “Your people forgot about mine – we are merely stories now, that none really believe.” 

She gave him a slight dig with her elbow. “This village believes in _you_ ,” she said. “I had no end’v people telling me to steer clear’v your woods.”

“Why did you not?” he asked, his pale eyes curious. The flecks of silver in them were as bright as the stars massed overhead.

“Because I don’t believe in anything,” she said bluntly. “Or at least, I didn’t. You sure as hell left me with no doubt you were real, even before I found out I had one in the oven. I couldn’t walk right for _days_.”

Thranduil gave her an incredibly self-satisfied smirk. “Well, you _are_ very small.”

“And you’re very…not,” she said. “I didn’t tell my sister what we’d got up to in there, so telling her I was preggers made her damn near choke to death.” She paused. “Is carrying this kid going to do anything bad to me, you not being human and all?”

He brushed the fringe back from her forehead. “It should not,” he said. “Your kind and mine have interbred successfully – albeit rarely – for thousands of years.”

He visibly relaxed as soon as they’d crossed over the border of the village, out into the fields. How weird, that he should mind all the concrete, when his forest was full of rocks – but then, concrete wasn’t exactly natural. 

“What are you, Thranduil?” Lorna asked. “Gran and my sister call you one’v the Fair Folk, but what d’you call yourself?”

“My people are Elves,” he said. “We call ourselves the Eldar, for we were the first to wake. I have walked this shore for some six thousand years, but the eldest, when he left, was fifteen thousand.”

She almost choked on her own spit. “Well, that’s one hell’v an age gap. I only turned twenty-nine in May. Will our kid have your lifespan, or mine?”

“They will have to choose. Peredhel – half-Elves – are given the right to decide whether they will be mortal or immortal.”

“They?” Lorna asked, suddenly wary.

“They,” he affirmed. “Twins, a boy and a girl. They will have my hair, and your truly unearthly eyes.”

Lorna snorted. “ _My_ eyes’re unearthly? Have you not looked in a mirror lately?” 

“Ah, but I am an Elf, little Lorna. We are meant to look unearthly,” Thranduil said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

She burst out laughing. “Suppose you’ve got a point there. I’ll tell you what, Thranduil: I’ll visit you in your forest as often as I can, until I can’t make the walk, but I want you to come to the village sometimes, too. There’s all manner’v scary stories about you, and I’d rather everyone not be afraid you’re going to cook me into a pie as soon as my back’s turned.”

He looked understandably wary, but at least he didn’t immediately say no.

“I’m not asking you to come to the pub every evening, but maybe once or twice a month? Right now they think you kill everyone who wanders into your forest and isn’t me.” Christ, she hoped he didn’t, or this was going to get _really_ awkward.

Thranduil snorted, and it was such an incongruously _human_ sound that she almost laughed. “I have never killed an Edain in my forest,” he said. “In truth, very few have dared enter, and when I find one, I wipe their memory and send them on their way. If I am sleeping, and the Edain is not destructive enough to wake me, I will not always know they are there. If they get lost and starve or freeze, it is hardly _my_ fault.”

Well, _that_ was something of a relief. “So you wouldn’t’ve actually killed me?”

“Of course not,” he said, tracing the line of her sleeve. “I merely wished to see what you would do.”

“And shag me,” she said dryly.

He gave her a smirk. “That too. I knew that you mourned the loss of a child, and it was all I could give you that I thought would mean something. That it was an enjoyable gift to give only made it better.”

Lorna laughed again, but at the same time, she was a little disturbed. “How did you know that? More lurking without a permit?”

“Precisely. I broke into your house while your family was asleep, and looked through your things,” Thranduil said blithely, as though there was nothing at all odd about it. Perhaps, to him, there was not.

She twitched. “Okay, Thranduil? Don’t do that again. It’s beyond creepy. If you want to know something, ask.”

He seemed to genuinely not understand why she was so unsettled – but then, he wasn’t human. Maybe his value system was different. “As you wish.”

They were very nearly at the house now, warm light spilling out the windows and onto the lawn. “I should leave you, lest your sister perish of heart failure. May I kiss you goodnight?”

Lorna burst out laughing. “ _Now_ you ask? Yes, you weirdo.”

Thranduil gave her another smirk, and when he kissed her, it was the sweetest, most chaste kiss she had ever received, sending a warmth more pure than desire through her. “Goodnight, little Lorna. I will see you soon.”

Lorna watched him go, and wondered why she didn’t resent him calling her little; normally, she detested references to her height. But then, from him, it didn’t seem like an insult.”

Thankfully, Mairead hadn’t been watching for her, and so hadn’t seen who walked her home. She managed to go to bed without interrogation, and her sleep was sweet and dreamless.

\--

On her next day off, she headed out at sunrise, or what would have been sunrise, if not for the heavy cloud cover. It was a chilly, misty morning, threatening rain; she didn’t have a raincoat, so she borrowed Mairead’s – the thing was large enough to be a tent on her, but at least she’d stay dry.

She took a lunch with her, and a Thermos of hot tea, and wished like hell she could add some whiskey to it. Seriously, this teetotaler thing was as horrible this time around as it had been the first, and now it had lasted longer. She couldn’t drink, she couldn’t smoke…it was a good thing she had Thranduil to distract her, or she’d go spare.

The grass, wet from rain in the night, squeaked beneath her boots, and even yet it smelled amazing to her. In the house in Dublin, their garden had consisted of a dead patch of lawn and nothing else, and of course in the warehouse there hadn’t been anything like a lawn at all, so this was still new to her. It was browning fast, thanks to two very early frosts, but to her it was still pretty.

If only the walk didn’t make her back ache so – but then, _everything_ made her back ache, and her center of gravity was so banjaxed that she’d tripped over nothing more than once. Oh well. She knew just how talented Thranduil’s hands were – he could put them to non-sexy but just as well-appreciated use.

When she reached the edge of the forest, she hesitated, though she didn’t know why. Curiously, the ground within it appeared to be dry. While the canopy was thick, surely it couldn’t have kept out rain as hard as what she’d heard pounding on the roof last night.

 _Not that I’m complaining_ , Lorna thought. It must be a side-effect of pregnancy, but for the first time in her life, cold was actually bothering her, sometimes quite a bit. Most of her life she’d been indifferent to it – she’d had to be, with the way she’d lived – but now it didn’t take much to make her feel unbearably chilly. She hoped Thranduil’s home had a fireplace, since she doubted central heating was a thing among the Elves.

Speaking of his house, she had no idea where it actually was. Breaking a rose seemed to have summoned him last time, so she’d just have to do it again, and hope it acted like some kind of supernatural doorbell. Provided there were any roses left to break; it was late enough in the year that surely the blossoms had all died. Christ, she hoped not.

The little creek gurgled beside her, chuckling to itself, and she wondered where it came from, and where it went. She’d never seen a creek in the fields, and by now she’d wandered most of them. It was almost as though she’d stepped into some pocket of another world – and perhaps she had. Really, she knew next to nothing about Thranduil, for all it felt like she did. And she couldn’t even break into his home and stalk him while he was asleep, which was beyond unfair.

To her surprise, the roses were indeed still in full bloom, and she paused a moment to admire them, and to inhale their heady scent. She’d actually had no idea what a rose smelled like until she was fifteen years old, and had wandered into a flower shop to get out of the rain. They’d been almost too rich for her taste, but she loved it now.

“You need not break a rose this time, little Lorna.”

She twitched. “Bell, Thranduil,” she said, turning to face him. “I am getting you a bell. I’d rather not die’v heart failure myself, especially not while I’m still knocked up.”

“You are rather too young and healthy for that,” he said, taking her chilled hands in his. He had on again the black coat he’d worn into the village, and in this light she noticed it had very subtle silver embroidery swirling through the fabric.

“Says you,” she said. “I hope you’ve got heat in that house’v yours, wherever it is. I’m bloody freezing.” Christ, but his eyes weren’t half hypnotic; they held hers in a way she would have called creepy in anyone else. In a sense, it was, but she had no fear of him, even if she probably should have, from a purely practical standpoint. She’d felt the strength in him; he could snap her neck in an instant if he wanted to.

Thranduil gave her one of his now-familiar smirks, and that was another thing: on anyone else, she’d have wanted to punch the expression right off their face, but on him it just seemed…natural. There was an arrogance to it, yes, and it was a bit irritating, but he was one of the sort who had a right to be a bit arrogant. He wasn’t what the Americans would call a poseur; she doubted people _got_ more real than Thranduil.

“I do,” he said, “if you will follow me.” He took her arm, as he had the other night, just like some posh gentleman in an old movie. It was…novel, to say the least.

Lorna had been wondering for weeks now just where he could be hiding his home, for she couldn’t imagine him living in a little house. Honestly, he dressed and acted like some manner of royalty, though that could just be her seeing him through a human perspective. 

He led her deeper into the forest – much deeper, actually, so much so that she would have got very lost on her own, until they reached a rather strange, and certainly unobtrusive, door.

“Once upon a time, my people lived in caverns,” he said, waving his free hand over it before opening it. “There are few enough of those left unexplored, but none have found my home.”

Lorna swallowed. She was more than a bit claustrophobic, and hoped like hell that she wasn’t going to have to crawl through any narrow tunnels.

But no, of course not – as if Thranduil could have handled a confined space, at his height. What he led her into made her pause, actually stealing her breath for a moment.

The cave was _huge_ , far bigger than one person could possibly need, illuminated by lamps that shouldn’t be so bright without electricity to power them. The floor was littered with pools of water, surrounded by mossy stones and delicate ferns of a type she’d never seen in the forest, so still they illuminated the lights like mirrors. Above the floor was a complex system of aerial walkways – some carved to look like the bark of a tree, and all entirely without railings. There were _real_ trees, too, growing right up through the roof of the cave, just as huge as those above it. And, mercifully, it was somehow much warmer than the outdoors above.

“Holy shit,” she said. “You _live_ here?”

Thranduil seemed genuinely pleased by her reaction, in an understated way. “I do,” he said. “And have, for five of my six thousand years. Once there were many of us, but now it is only myself and the Lingerers.”

She looked up at him. “Lingerers?”

“I am not the only Elf who wished to stay in this world,” he said seriously. “The others, however, Faded – their souls burnt up their bodies, until they are now nothing but houseless fëa, wandering the Earth unseen by any save myself and one another.”

Lorna winced. “Have you really never let anyone else down here? Anyone human, I mean?”

He sighed. “Those who are born in this village are too afraid of me,” he said. “I know not just what manner of stories they tell of me, but obviously they are not good. Admittedly, I have not helped, but still. None have given me any cause to believe they would not seek more from me – none until you.”

“It was just a song,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “It’s not like it was worth anything.”

Thranduil brushed her mist-dampened hair back from her forehead. “It was the best thing you had to give,” he said. “I know that you have next to nothing, Lorna – nothing material, anyway. Your people have so long been obsessed with currency, with physical bartering, that you have forgotten the worth of the intangible. And you offered it to me freely, without expectation of anything in return. As I told you, that is…unprecedented, in my life. I had to follow you – I had to know more of you.”

That…actually, that made her feel a bit inferior. Never in all her life had she actually done anything – not anything worth noting, anyway. “I hope you weren’t disappointed by what you found,” she said. “I haven’t exactly had a life worth much remark.” And compared to him, she was so very, very young. Twenty-nine wasn’t exactly old even by human standards, but by his? She was probably less than an infant to him, which, okay, made their sexy shenanigans a bit creepy.

“So you broke into my house and stalked me,” she said dryly. “Do me a favor and don’t ever tell Mairead that. She’d never sleep at night again.”

He smiled – actually smiled, not smirked. “Very well. Come, let me show you my kingdom.”

“Kingdom?” she asked, even as he led her along one of the high paths.

“I was king of this land, once,” he said. “I suppose I still am, though there are none now for me to rule over.”

Lorna halted, dragging him to a stop as well. “You’re a _king_? Christ, no wonder you seem so posh.” Well, now she felt _really_ inferior, though also rather flattered. The King of the damn Elves thought she was worth a second glance. Damn.

 _There_ was the smirk. “I am uncertain what ‘posh’ means, but I can make a guess. There is little enough meaning in my title now, but I wear it still.”

Jesus, that meant their kids were going to be some kind of royal bastards. At least there was no point in them fighting over a throne their father would occupy forever.

He led her onward, past a rushing waterfall that misted her face with icy spray. Where was _it_ coming from? The physics of this place were beyond her. If she’d had such a beautiful home, she’d never leave it.

She winced, rubbing the small of her back, and Thranduil paused. “Are you in pain?”

“A little. My back’s been sore as hell for the last three weeks, thanks to the cantaloupes.” She would never stop thinking of the twins like that, not now.

“Ah. In that case, this way.” He led her off onto a branching walkway, and God, weren’t they high up now. Heights were not her friend at the best of times, and now she clung to Thranduil like a limpet, figuring that he was unlikely to fall no matter what she did.

Eventually they reached a very vast room – his bedroom, as it turned out, and just as beautiful as the rest of the place. His bed was a massive four-poster, the posts carved to look like trees, with branches winding together to form the canopy. The spread was autumn-rusty velvet that looked so soft she wanted to burrow into it and never come out again – and yet something about it made her sad. This vast room, these vast caves, and Thranduil was all alone. There ought to be hundreds, _thousands_ of people here – how could he stand it? Even the most antisocial of people would surely go mad in such isolation.

“Take that thing off and sit on the bed, if you can’t lie down,” he said, and she fumbled with the buttons on her coat – her fingers were still stiff with chill.

“Yeah, lying on my stomach doesn’t happen anymore,” she said. “I’m afraid I’d squish the sprogs.” Which, given that she normally _slept_ on her stomach, had made her nights a misery for some weeks now. She had a hard enough time sleeping as it was.

She took her boots off and clambered onto the bed, and found the duvet every bit as soft as she’d imagined. Since he was alone, how did he keep everything so _clean?_ She hadn’t seen so much as a speck of dust.

Thranduil sat behind her, his hands slipping beneath the hem of her shirts. They were still cool, but not cold, and yet again his fingers seemed downright magical. He knew exactly where to knead, and how hard, and it was all she could do not to moan. His thumbs traveled up her spine, moving in soothing circles, and she felt all the tension she’d been carrying drain like water through a sieve. 

“You,” she said, “are unfairly good at that.”

“I _am_ six thousand years old,” he said, a trifle smugly. “I would hope so.”

She wanted to snark at him, but she was feeling incredibly sleepy. It wasn’t long before consciousness deserted her entirely.

\--

Thranduil knew the exact moment Lorna fell asleep. As he also knew how little she’d been sleeping lately, he let her, gently helping her lie on her side. He crept up onto the bed to lie beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist, his hand on her rounded belly.

In truth, he couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he’d been so drawn to her. The song had been part of it, yes; he spoke truth when he said she was the first person to freely offer him something for nothing, but he’d been drawn to her even before that – even before she appeared at the edge of his forest that night.

He _did_ often walk beyond its borders after dark, especially in the summer; he’d known when she arrived, and it had piqued his interest, simply because so few strangers ever came to this sleepy little village. Her fëa had been deeply wounded by the loss of her husband and her child, its light perilously dim, and for some reason, that had bothered him immensely. _Why_ , he didn’t know – she was mortal; by his reckoning, her life would be over in a heartbeat. There was nothing at all overtly remarkable about her, either: she was little different from thousands of other Edain, and yet…

And yet.

He had hoped she would return – had been certain she would, sooner or later, for she didn’t seem like the sort who could ignore her own curiosity. Admittedly, he hadn’t intended to seduce her from the outset; he’d merely wanted to see her, to speak with her, to try to divine just what it was that drew him. But then she sang to him.

Her voice could not compare to that of Elven bards, but the honesty, the _feeling_ in it – it was something he hadn’t seen in a very long time. There was no artifice to Lorna, no pretence; while she was not precisely open right now, Thranduil had a feeling that she normally was, when she wasn’t grieving. It was refreshing, and almost disturbingly addictive. He wanted more, wanted all of her, but it was far too early for him to actually say so.

She was honest, and she mourned, and there was but one thing he could think to give her. He’d made the giving of it pleasant for the both of them, though in truth, he could have taken her for hours, if he’d thought she could physically stand it. As he had no idea just what limitations the Edain had, he’d thought it best to err on the side of caution.

Later, once she had recovered from childbirth, they could…explore those limits, if she would allow him to. He certainly hoped that she would. She was his Lorna now, whether she liked it or not, and he’d do whatever it took to keep her.

\--

Thranduil visited several times in the next fortnight, as the days darkened and the nights lengthened, though he rarely made his presence known to any but her.

The sun gave way to the torrential autumn rains Ireland was far more familiar with, and one particularly stormy day, half the drains on Main Street stopped up, and the pub – and half the buildings on either side of it – flooded.

“Bloody goddamn hell,” Lorna grumbled. She could still see her feet, but barely, and she certainly couldn’t lift anything, so she was relegated to trying to block off the outside of the doorway with a wadded-up tarpaulin that smelled like sawdust and mothballs. Big Jamie, Michael, and half a dozen of the regulars got the chairs onto the tables. The floor was going to get absolutely _ruined_.

It was still sheeting outside, the rain blown almost horizontal, and oh, it was _cold_. It soaked Lorna’s hair where it blew in through the doorway, dripping down the back of her shirt, and damn did she want a drink, a nice hot coffee with two shots of Bailey’s.

“You look like a drowned rat.”

She jumped, and smacked Thranduil with the end of her wet braid. “You’re such a charmer,” she grumbled, “and I really _am_ getting you a bell. How the hell are you so _dry_?” Neither his hair nor his black coat were even damp.

“What is it you say, about how you mix your drinks? Ah yes: trade secret,” he smirked. “Get inside, before you freeze.” He ushered her in before she could protest, closing the door behind them, and drew the tip of his boot along the bottom edge. The water ceased welling beneath it immediately.

Lorna looked at it, and at him. “Let me guess,” she said, “trade secret?”

“Precisely.” He laid his right hand on her belly. “The twins are enjoying the storm.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Now you’re just showing off.”

The sudden lack of cursing told her they’d been noticed, and she had to choke back a laugh when she found eight pairs of startled eyes watching them.

“Lord, uh, Thranduil,” Big Jamie said, not quite steadily. “I wouldn’t have thought to see you out here.”

“All the creeks have jumped their banks,” Thranduil complained. “My forest is as flooded as your village.”

“You’re bored, aren’t you?” Lorna asked, sloshing her way across the floor to the bar. Christ, the filthy water was nearly ankle-deep.

“I was,” he said. “I am not now. I unstopped several of your drains along the way, though I question what good it will do.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” she sighed, clambering up onto a stool. “I’ve not seen rain like this in years.”

“Nor have we,” Big Jamie said, staying right where he was, not quite daring to look away from Thranduil. “After the summer we had, it had to turn up all in one lump.”

“Your people have changed the weather,” Thranduil said. “Even I cannot predict it with any accuracy anymore.” He took Lorna’s chilled hands in his, and she immediately sneezed.

He looked so startled that she laughed. “Have you not seen anyone sneeze before?”

“Not in several thousand years,” he said, rubbing her fingers. “It is rather…startling.”

“Just wait ’til you’re in here when the lads have a belching contest,” she said. “Though they’ve not done that in a while.”

“That’s because you always win,” Michael said. He’d taken refuge halfway through the door to the cold room, and seemed determined to stay there.

Thranduil laughed, his pale eyes lighting up. “Do you?”

“Damn right,” she said proudly, as she struggled to unlace one of her boots. They were full of water – her feet would probably be warmer without them. “I set off a car alarm once.”

“I have no idea what that means, but I assume it is an accomplishment.” He leaned down and grabbed her foot, nimble fingers making short work of the laces.

Before she could assure him that it was, the power cut, plunging the room into darkness. The clouds were so heavy that the light through the windows wasn’t worth much.

“Dammit,” Lorna grumbled, fishing her lighter out of her pocket. She’d had to quit smoking along with everything else, but the lighter had been a present from Liam, so she still carried it. The glow of the flame let her find one of the bar-candles. “Jamie, we’ll be wanting more’v these.”

“On it.” Two more ignited, lit by Michael. “Whole village’ll be a mess come morning.”

The door opened, admitting a whole knot of soaked, swearing people – Mick and Alec among them, from the sound of it.

“I think the power’s just cut all over town.” That had to be Siobhan, clerk over at the market. “The water’s so deep on Third Street it stalled my car.”

Given the hollow between Mairead’s house and town, if it was flooded, nobody could pick Lorna up, either. Bloody brilliant. “Is there anywhere that’s not underwater?”

“Some of the fields are still dry,” Thranduil said, prying her boot off and pouring the water out.

“Is that – have we got Lord Thranduil paying us a visit?” Mick asked carefully.

“We have,” Lorna said, grinning up at the Elf in question. “His forest flooded, and he got bored.”

Michael lit more candles, lining them up on the bar, sloshing all the while. The flames almost made Thranduil’s hair seem to glow, lending some color to his pale face. 

“Lorna is right,” he said, reaching for her other boot. “I can do little when half my forest is underwater.”

“If this rain doesn’t stop, it’ll be the other half by morning,” she snorted. “It’s like bloody monsoon season in India.”

“I hope not,” Alec snorted. “I’ve not got a kayak to go boating down the street in. Jamie, we’d best raid your fridge – everything in it’ll be off by morning anyway.”

Big Jamie grumbled, but for once, Alec was right, and Lorna was starving.

“I’ll take all the pickles,” she called.

“Are you _still_ eating those?” Thranduil asked, peeling the wet sock off her right foot.

“With mustard, now,” she affirmed, ignoring Siobhan’s gagging sound.

“I do not know what mustard is, but evidently, the combination is disgusting,” he said dryly.

“It is to anyone who isn’t up the yard,” Siobhan muttered, hopping up onto one of the tables. She at least didn’t seem to be tenser than over-stretched piano wire, but then, Lorna doubted she could be: Siobhan was five years her senior, with the sort of effortless blonde looks that would have made Lorna feel terribly inferior, if the woman hadn’t been totally indifferent to her own appearance, and had yet to seem fazed by anything at all. “If this doesn’t let up soon, I’m sleeping here tonight.”

“I think we _all_ are,” Lorna sighed. She didn’t relish the thought – she was cold, her hair was wet, her jeans soaked to her shins, and there was nothing to sleep _on_ but the tables and the bar.

She sneezed again, but this time Thranduil didn’t look so startled. “I’ll have the mother’v all colds by the day after tomorrow,” she groused, wiping her nose on her sleeve. It was wet and cold, too, and only made her sneeze again.

“Yes, but you will be home, and I will bring you something for it,” Thranduil said. “You people get ill appallingly easily.”

“Hush, you. At least we haven’t got the Black Death anymore,” she said, casting a longing look at the amber bottles of whiskey.

“You have no _idea_ how confusing that was, at first,” he said. “Never had I seen such a pestilence – nor what it did.”

That sent a hush over the room, and Lorna didn’t wonder why. She herself was often surprised by reminders of just how old Thranduil was, and she’d been around him more often.

“What – what was it _like_ , watching that?” Dai asked. He was only a little younger than Lorna, and worked in his Da’s mechanic – when he was sober, anyway.

“Quite frankly, disgusting,” Thranduil said dryly. “There was no village here then, but my forest was much larger, and at times I would walk beyond its borders. Of the three villages nearest, I found not a single survivor. For decades, I did not know that any of your people had survived at all.”

“We’ve cured that, you know,” Lorna said, hoisting herself up to sit on the counter. “And a load’v other things. At least, until some new flu or something comes along and takes out half’v us.”

“Christ, don’t say that,” Michael said. “I read a book about this flu in 1918 that killed a hundred million people.”

“There’s some going around the village already,” Mick said, claiming his own table. “Nasty stuff. Mam’s down with it.”

“You’d best be sure you don’t catch it, Lorna,” Michael said. “The book said it’s dangerous for pregnant women.”

Of course she sneezed again. “I didn’t need to hear that.” Her feet felt so much better out of her boots – still cold, but at least they were dry, and she stuck them under Thranduil’s coat, rested on his chest. If only the rest of her wasn’t so goddamn frigid.

“What do you mean, dangerous?” Thranduil asked, an edge to his voice.

She looked at Michael, who looked a trifle pale beneath his freckles. “Nobody really knows why, but pregnant women can die’v the flu.”

“See, I didn’t need to hear _that_ , either,” she complained.

“When I take you home, I am dousing you with every remedy I have,” Thranduil said. He looked unnervingly serious, too.

“Your home, or mine?” she asked, sneezing again.

“Mine, for now. I will bring you back to your sister once I am certain you will not sneeze out sections of your brain.”

Lorna burst out laughing. “I don’t think that’s actually possible, but okay.”

Big Jamie came wading back from the cold-room, followed by Alec, both of them bearing huge trays of sandwiches. “All right, we’ve got sandwiches, pasties, and ice cream, and Lorna, I did you a hot chocolate, since you can’t have alcohol.”

“How’d you manage that, with the power off?” she asked, gratefully warming her fingers on the mug he handed her. “God, this smells amazing.”

“I’ve a hot-plate that runs off batteries,” he said. “This’s the first time I’ve ever had cause to use it.”

“You’re a saint, Jamie, you really are. Thranduil, have you ever had chocolate?” She took a sip, relishing the taste, and held the mug out to him.

He looked at it with very obvious dubiousness, but hazarded a sip himself. His expression was so surprised that Lorna had to laugh.

“Good, isn’t it?” she said, reaching for the mug.

He took another, longer sip before handing it back. “Surprisingly so,” he said. “Does your sister have any of that in her home?”

“With four children? Of course she does. I’ll make you some, and she can go pee herself in the lounge.”

“I really do not understand why you are all so afraid of me,” he sighed, looking around the room. It actually looked a bit ridiculous – over a dozen people sitting on tables, most now clutching sandwiches, bathed in candlelight.

“Well – it’s just – haven’t you killed people?” Mick asked, all but hiding behind his sandwich.

Thranduil snorted. “As I told Lorna, no, I have not. If any of you wander into my forest and freeze to death, it is neither my doing nor my fault. I might wipe your memory of the place, but I am not about to _kill_ you.”

He sounded so offended that Lorna choked on her cocoa, though mercifully she didn’t actually snort it out of her nose. “You can really do that?”

He looked at her. “I can do a great many things Edain would no longer believe. A thousand years ago, I could do many more.”

“Oh, well, now you’ve _got_ to explain that,” she said.

“She’s right,” Mick said. “We’ve so many stories’v you, Lord Thranduil, but I don’t know how many – if any – are true.”

Thranduil looked around the room again, his gaze assessing them all. “Not that one,” he said. “Not yet. While I do not know quite so little about you all as you know about me, there are some things not to be shared right away.”

“Can you – is there something you’re willing to tell us?” Alec asked, sounding remarkably like an eager child, despite the glass of whiskey and rapidly melting ice in his hand.

Thranduil looked thoughtful. “I first came to your land some five thousand years ago,” he said, “when very few of your people had yet arrived. The oceans were lower then, and some eighty miles off what is now the shore there was Erebor, the Lonely Mountain. It was the seat of a kingdom of Dwarves.”

“Dwarves like, Little People, or the kind with beards and gold?” Mick asked.

“The latter. Their kingdom had stood for centuries, its people producing works of such intricate craftsmanship that they might remain unrivaled by your kind to this day.”

Lorna sipped her cocoa, determined then and there to show him more of the modern world. She couldn’t let _that_ insult stand.

“Their last King, however, went mad with greed, hoarding more and more gold. I warned him that he would bring a dragon upon himself if he kept on as he was, but he did not listen.”

“Wait, wait,” she said, “ _dragon_? There were actual _dragons_?”

He looked down at her, and again there was an odd sorrow in his eyes. “There were,” he said. “Someday, I will tell you a tale of another one.

“But as I said, Thrór would not listen, and time proved me right. Smaug the Terrible came to Erebor, and slaughtered its people, and slept on my doorstep for the next two hundred years.”

“What happened to him?” Siobhan asked.

“There was a massive earthquake, and the entire mountain sunk into the sea. He drowned, and Erebor and all its treasure were lost.”

The room was quiet for a moment. “I can’t decide if that’s a downer ending or not,” Mick said.

“Endings are rarely happy,” Thranduil said. “It is why I have isolated myself from them for so long.”

“I – I don’t know how to say this without sounding rude as hell,” Big Jamie said, “but why’ve you picked now to stop isolating yourself?”

“Because change is coming,” he said, stealing another sip of Lorna’s cocoa. “I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. What it will be, I do not yet know, but it _will_ be. And perhaps, then, you will have need of me.”

Lorna arched an eyebrow. “D’you have to practice being that cryptic and creepy, or does it just come naturally to you?”

Thranduil tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “A little of both, really. A king must be a little mysterious.”

Mick choked on his whiskey. “You _what_?”

Thranduil smirked. “Your island was my kingdom once, long ago. My forest covered the whole of it, but one by one my people yearned to return to Valinor – our homeland. I was born of this world, however, and I do not wish to forsake it. I have diminished, but I have endured, though your people tore apart my land with iron ploughs.”

He looked around the room again. “Why did you all believe in me, when none in this village had seen me in centuries?”

“Some have,” Big Jamie said. “My great-gran, she saw you walking one night, when she was a girl. My gran said she said you glowed in the moonlight.”

“My great-great granddad saw you, too,” Siobhan added. “Said he knew you couldn’t be human ’cause he saw your ears. Every family’s got stories’v you, and it’s a small village even now. We’re not like the _city_.” She said the word with such scorn that Lorna had to laugh.

“It’s true,” she said. “I didn’t believe in you for a moment until I saw you.”

The door opened before he could respond, admitting a very sodden Mairead. “Lorna, I’ve come – oh.” She froze, staring at Thranduil with eyes round as coins. “Oh, bloody hell.”

“Will you shut the damn door?” Siobhan demanded.

Mairead did, not taking her eyes off Thranduil. “You—”

“Yes, Mairead, this is Thranduil,” Lorna said. “He’ll not eat you.”

Her sister swallowed, and then her eyes narrowed. “You knocked my baby sister up,” she said. “I hope you plan on marrying her.”

He looked down at Lorna. “By the standards of my people, I already have.”

Lorna’s cocoa shot out of her nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smooth, Thranduil. Really smooth. It’s a good thing she doesn’t yet know how possessive you are, or you’d be having big, _big_ problems.
> 
> What he says about feeling change in the earth and the water is, of course, from _The Lord of the Rings_ – said by Gandalf in the books, and Galadriel in the movies. The story of Erebor on Earth is in fact rather a downer ending, but it would be.
> 
> Title means “Stories” in Irish. Reviews let me know if I’m going in the right direction or not, so please drop me a note.


	3. Foghlaim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna and Thranduil have a Talk with a capital T, he learns quite a bit about human biology _and_ technology, and the village continues to be disturbed.

Hot chocolate, Lorna decided, wasn’t nearly as pleasant when it shot out your nose. She coughed and hacked and then sneezed three times, spilling the hot liquid down the front of her shirt. Bugger absolutely everything.

“Thranduil,” she said, when she finally could, “we need to have a discussion. _In private._ ”

He gave her one of his smirks as he slid off the counter, picking her up before she could hop to the floor herself.

“Office,” she ordered, grabbing a candle and pointing with one bare foot. She was rather disturbed by how silent his wading was.

Big Jamie’s office was both messy and cramped, his desk covered in teetering piles of paperwork. There was a small, grimy window, but the sky was so dark it was of little use. Though it was only around six – so far as she knew – it looked more like midnight.

There being only one chair, she had to sit on Thranduil’s lap, which took a bit of the dignity out of her ire. He himself seemed perfectly tranquil, with a trace of amusement in his pale eyes.

“All right, you,” she said, poking him in the chest, “ _how_ exactly d’you think we got married, and why did you not tell me before now?”

“I took you to bed,” he said, still unperturbed, his expression languid. “Among my people, to go to bed with someone is to wed them. I said nothing to you of it because I know it is not the custom of your people, and thus I would not hold you to it. Hence why I said I must court you.”

Her brain came to a screeching halt, even as she sneezed again – right in his face, actually. His grimace of disgust at least dissolved a little of her inner tension. “You did that knowing you’d be _married_ to me by your standards? Thranduil, you might know some things _about_ me, but you don’t _know_ me, so why in God’s name would you do that? Because I’m guessing you people haven’t got divorce.”

“We do not,” he said, wiping his face on his sleeve with a grimace. “And you are right – I still know so little of you, and I knew less then.”

“Then _why_?” That was the sort of thing only idiot humans did, or so she thought.

“Because I wanted to,” he said simply, with an arch of an eyebrow. “Your people do not see as mine do. You see only the hröa, the body, but the Eldar see the fëa – the soul – as well. And your fëa is the loveliest I have ever seen.”

Well, at least that would explain how he could call her beautiful and actually mean it. “Were you ever planning to tell _me_ this?” she asked, tucking her cold feet under the edge of his coat.

“If I convinced you to marry me on your terms, yes,” he said, stroking the side of her face. “I still mean to court you.”

Lorna fixed him with a stern glare, trying to ignore the sheer intensity in his eyes. “And you still can, provided you don’t keep secrets like _that_ again,” she said. “I’ll not have it, Thranduil. If it affects me, I want to know about it.”

“As you wish,” he said, kissing her fingertips.

Lorna wanted to say that he really needed to watch _The Princess Bride_ , but instead she sneezed again – though at least this time it was into her sleeve, rather than his face.

“That is it,” he said, rising with her. “We can wait out this deluge in my home, and I will return you to yours once I am certain you will not die of some terrible Edain disease.”

“I hope that trade secret’ll keep me dry, too, or this’ll be a right miserable walk,” she said.

\--

Lorna’s sister clearly wasn’t happy about letting Thranduil walk off into the falling night with her, but at least the revelation of their (currently one-sided) marriage seemed to have mollified her a bit. 

“Don’t drop her,” she said. “She’s the only baby sister I’ve got.”

“She will return to you in one piece,” he assured, “and hopefully without a cold.”

“I’ll come back for cleanup, Jamie,” Lorna said, trying to crane her head to look at her employer.

“You’ll do no such thing,” the man said. “Not in your condition. I’ll ring you when we’re open for business again. Until then, you stay dry and keep your feet warm.”

She looked at her bare brown feet. “Right. Fine, Jamie, I’ll see you when I see you. Mairead – same, I suppose. I really ought to get a mobile, if I’m going to be running about so much.”

“Later,” Mairead said firmly. “Remember, Lord Thranduil – don’t drop her.”

“I will _not_ , Mistress Mairead.” They plunged out into the storm before she could say anything more.

It was still raging; if anything, it had grown worse, and if it was this intense this far inland, the coasts must be a nightmare for all living on them.

Thranduil did not share the Edain reaction to violent weather: they saw only inconvenience, not majesty. Just now the wind howled, the rain nearly a solid sheet of water, though none of it touched him or Lorna. There was such _power_ in a storm, a strength beyond even that of the Eldar, and it was as beautiful as it was terrible.

It was also, at the moment, nearly pitch-dark, the wind downright icy. He didn’t mind, but Lorna was shivering, and he wrapped her in his coat as best he could while still holding her.

Lightning forked through the clouds, silver-bright, and she sucked in a startled breath. Thunderstorms were rare in Eire, and all the rarer this time of year. The clap of thunder followed almost immediately, so loud it made her jump in his arms.

“I’ve always loved storms,” she said. “I probably wouldn’t if I owned anything they could destroy, but I never have. There’s this Metallica song called ‘Ride the Lightning’, which I guess is about being executed in an electric chair, but when I was a kid I thought it was actually about riding lightning. I always wanted to be able to just sit on a cloud and watch a storm from above. Whenever I’ve got you over to my place, I’ll show you satellite photos.”

He had no idea what either of those things were. Really, he knew so little about modern Edain – or any Edain. “There is much that you must show me of your world, for I did not understand a quarter of what you just said.”

Lorna laughed, even as the clouds again lit up silver. “I’ll start your crash-course on Tuesday,” she said. “I’ve got an appointment for an ultrasound, and you’re going with me. You’ll actually be able to see the babies, more or less, and I _really_ don’t want to go with Mairead again. She’s…pushy.”

_That_ Thranduil could well believe. “Very well,” he said. “I will go and terrorize people with you, as it seems that is all I am capable of doing in this village.” While they were right to fear him in an abstract sense, it was nevertheless irritating. There would be no separating Lorna from them, so he would rather they not fear he would eat them if they turned their backs.

“That’s the spirit,” she said, and sneezed. That truly _was_ disturbing. “You know, I read somewhere that people sneeze with their eyes close because if we didn’t, the force’v it’d pop our eyes out’v our heads.”

He looked down at her. “That is disgusting, and given how frail your people are, I would not be surprised.”

“Berk,” she said, and poked the end of his nose.

Even with all the water, the walk didn’t take long – although he noted that the level in the forest had risen yet further. Where once there was a creek there was now a shallow lake, rushing and churning through the trees. Only magic kept it from pouring through the door when he opened it, which was not precisely easy with his armful of Lorna.

“Thranduil, this place is too beautiful to be so empty,” she said. “It’d make a great bunker for the end’v the world. If somebody drops a nuke, you might wind up with the whole village living in here.”

“I do not know what a ‘nuke’ is,” he said, heading for his bedroom, “but that is an appalling thought.”

“It won’t be if the zombie apocalypse ever happens,” she said seriously, shoving a few damp tendrils of hair out of her face. In it were a few threads of pure silver, that even wet glinted in the lamplight. “Seriously, there is so much I need to catch you up on. You can’t properly fear a zombie apocalypse if you don’t know what a zombie _is_.”

He shook his head as they entered his room, depositing her in an armchair before the hearth so he could stoke the fire. What, exactly, had he gotten himself into? “Do not overwhelm me,” he said, adding some kindling. In truth, he had little interest in other Edain, but he suspected he was going to have to develop some, because Lorna did.

Lorna, who was shucking her wet trousers without a trace of self-consciousness. Her shirt, made of some red-and-black tartan material, was long enough to be a tunic, but somehow he doubted she would have cared even if it was not.

“Here, help me lay these out by the fire, will you?” she asked, struggling to pick them up and failing. “My stomach gets in the way’v everything anymore.”

Thranduil laid them out on the hearth, and rose to fetch her one of his robes. It had been so long, so very, very long, since he’d had someone to care for, any welfare to look after but his own. Now there was another, and soon there would be three.

He had not known if Lorna would even wish him to be in the twins’ lives, but mercifully, she seemed to expect it. It had been millennia since he’d raised a child, but surely he could do it again.

And this time, he would make certain their mother did not die.

When he returned to her, he found her unwinding her braid, and when she looked up at him, there was curiosity in her unsettling green eyes. “Why do I trust you, Thranduil?” she asked. “I don’t trust _anybody_ , not really, not totally, so why do I trust you now? Did you bewitch me?”

“No,” he said, although that wasn’t strictly true; he _had_ pushed a little of his own desire into her mind the day they met, but he hadn’t done it on purpose. “I think it merely that you know I would never harm you. Now get out of that wet shirt and put this on. And try not to sneeze on it.”

\--

The robe was the softest, warmest thing Lorna had ever worn, even if it was acres too large. Bundled up in it, a mug of hot cider in her hands (where did he get cider – and how?), she felt…strangely at home. Or at least, she thought that was what the feeling was. Until she went to live with Mairead, she’d never had a proper home – for the dump she’d spent her childhood in couldn’t have been called a ‘home’ by anyone.

She’d sure as hell come a long way since – knocked up by a king who apparently wanted to be married to her, even if he _was_ a bit of a creeper about some things. Thranduil desperately needed socializing, that was for damn sure, but they could work on that later.

For now, she’d settle for finishing the cider, hitting the toilet ( _again_ ), and going to sleep. Having someone to sleep next to always made that easier.

\--

She woke the next morning utterly miserable.

Her prediction of a cold had come true, in spite of the cordials Thranduil had forced on her. Her throat was raw, her sinuses completely clogged, and even with all the blankets and Thranduil’s robe, she was freezing. 

“Oh, fuck everything,” she grumbled – and sneezed. Even that small amount of movement made her joints feel like they were full of crushed glass, and her voice was barely to be found.

“Would this be the ‘cold’ you were mentioning?” Thranduil asked from behind her.

With great difficulty, Lorna rolled to face him, trying to curl into a ball at the same time. “Yes,” she said, and sneezed again. “Elves don’t get sick, do they?”

“No,” he said, kissing her forehead, and paused. “You are very warm.”

“Fever,” she explained. “Kids’ll get them, too, unless – will they be born as humans, or Elves? In their…I dunno, default state?”

“As you are Edain, they will be Edain, though most likely with Elven ears.”

“That’ll be hard to explain,” she said, and sneezed yet again. God she was cold, and Thranduil’s body temperature was too low to make him an effective living heater. She’d have to have a word with Doc Barry before the woman met him, or she’d want to run all sorts of tests on him, which would be both creepy and invasive. “So wait, if you don’t get sick, why d’you have so many remedies?”

“Because Elves _can_ be injured,” he said, laying a hand on her forehead. “And those injuries can become infected. We are only immortal in that we do not age. While we are more difficult to kill than Edain, we can still die at the end of a sword.”

“See, I didn’t need to know that,” she said, and she really didn’t – thought of him being vulnerable in any way freaked her out more than it ought to.

“Few know I am here, Lorna,” he said, pulling her closer, “and I strongly doubt any in your village would dare try to harm me.”

Maybe not, but she wouldn’t put it past some idiot to blab to the outside world, looking for their fifteen minutes of fame. But then again, it wasn’t as though anyone would _believe_ them. Even a picture would just be dismissed as Photoshop. She was far from the only one in the world who didn’t believe in anything.

\--

Lorna slept again for a while, and when she woke, Thranduil brought her soup. She ate it off a tray, still in bed, like the posh ladies of _Downton Abbey_ , and wondered what her life had become.

She wondered if she ought to be creeped out by Thranduil. He’d married her, at least in his own mind, the day he met her – and apparently he’d been sort-of stalking her before that. Now here he was, taking care of her like they’d been married for years.

If he’d been human, she _would_ have been unsettled, but he wasn’t. That sadness, that wistfulness in his pale eyes – he wasn’t a creeper, he was just desperately lonely, and didn’t really seem to understand much at all about humans. Clearly he didn’t realize privacy was a thing.

“I got myself a TV,” she said, her voice still sounding like she’d swallowed a pound of sand, “And Mairead gave me her old DVD player. When you take me home, I want you to come watch a movie with me. If I introduce you to my world bit by bit, it won’t be overwhelming.” He was going to watch _Shaun of the Dead_ , whether he liked it or not. And he’d better like it.

He added more wood to the fire, and came to sit by her feet. “Only if you allow me to teach you my language,” he said.

“Would you?” Lorna hadn’t been much use at school, and certainly hadn’t enjoyed much of it, but she loved languages, and had an ear for them. She’d picked up a great deal of Russian in prison, and some Welsh, and she could read a fair bit of French, even if she couldn’t speak it worth a damn.

“Of course I will,” he said, rubbing her left foot. “It has been so long now since I have heard my tongue spoken by any save myself.” Again there was that sadness, and Lorna didn’t blame him at all. His entire existence was a goddamn tragedy.

“You know,” she said, hitting upon what she hoped was a grand idea, “once I’ve learned some, we should teach the village. There’s got to be a few that’d want to learn. I know you’ve not got any’v your own people here anymore, but from what I can gather, you’ve been part’v this village in name for hundreds’v years already – you might as well be one in truth, when you feel like it. I know that we die and you don’t, but it’s not like the stories’v you haven’t been passed down for generations anyway.”

She simply couldn’t bear the thought of him being all alone, isolated in his beautiful, empty halls forever. True, if their kids chose to be Elves, he’d at least have them, but he – and they – would need more than that.

Lorna had always lived in a group. She had three siblings, and then her gang, and prison, and she and Liam had often knocked about with other people. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could live on their own, and certainly not as long as Thranduil had. No wonder he was a little weird.

“Perhaps,” he said. “If we can find any who would wish to try.”

\--

She was still sniffling and sneezing two days later, but at least she no longer wished she was dead. They had an ultrasound appointment to go to at noon.

Last night she’d made use of Thranduil’s massive bathtub, which had been bloody amazing – the thing was bigger than a Jacuzzi, and let her sprawl out like a starfish.

Of course, since she’d gone to bed with her hair still damp, it was a nightmare, and now she sat at Thranduil’s mahogany dressing-table, trying to comb it out. They’d stop by Mairead’s so she could pick up some clothes, and then Thranduil would get his first course in modern medicine.

Lorna nearly dropped the comb when something fluttered in her abdomen. It was so alien, so _strange_ – there it was again. “Holy shit,” she breathed, touching her stomach. “Thranduil, get over here – one’v them’s kicking.”

He emerged from the bathroom, swathed in a black robe, his silvery hair still damp. “What?”

“Come here, before they stop,” she said, and grabbed his hand when he approached, laying it on her stomach. “One’v them’s kickboxing. I hope they’re not punching each other.”

The sheer look of _wonder_ on his face startled her, and for the first time, she wondered if he’d had children before. Oh God, wasn’t that a heartbreaking thought. She wanted to ask, yet she didn’t dare – if he’d had a kid before, he or she was lost to him now, by death or by choice.

She looked down at his hand, his fingers so long and so white. Normally, white guys didn’t catch her interest, but Thranduil was…well, _different_ , in nearly every sense of the word. He was a beautiful creature who she did not doubt could be very cold, if he chose, yet now his arctic eyes looked at her round stomach like it was the bloody Holy Grail.

“I didn’t have my last one long enough to feel this,” she said. “It’s the strangest thing…I always knew they were in there, but I can _feel_ them now.” It made it…more real. And, honestly, a little terrifying.

She was going to be someone’s _Mam. Two_ someone’s. Thank bloody God she had Mairead, or she’d be lost at sea.

“We’d best get on,” she said. “Doc Barry knows where I live. If she finds out I’ve missed the appointment, I’ll never hear the end’v it.”

Thranduil rose with obvious reluctance, and went to dress while she finished wrestling with her hair. Eventually she just gave up, and threw it into an extremely messy braid.

When he reappeared, the contrast between them made her wince a bit. Lorna wasn’t a bad-looking woman, but Thranduil looked like someone had breathed life into a statue, tall and strong and unfairly flawless. The tunic he wore was similar in design to the black one, but silver, his trousers some manner of soft grey velvet, and grey leather boots.

She looked at her own jeans and sturdy workman’s boots, at her rumpled flannel shirt and the quilted hunting jacket she’d stolen from her brother-in-law when her own quit buttoning over her stomach. They were a study in contrasts, that was for damn sure.

They’d certainly grab the eye of the whole village. The thought nearly made her laugh.

“Let’s go,” she said, heaving herself off the chair.

\--

Nobody was home when they reached Mairead’s, everyone either at school or a work, so it was easy for Lorna to nip up to her room and dig out clean clothes.

She’d been slowly but surely personalizing the space. Mairead had bought her a bigger bed, so she could actually try to sleep with her growing stomach, and then she’d discovered the joys of internet shopping – specifically, Amazon.

The flat white walls were papered over with posters – nature shots, metal bands, and the TARDIS against a starry sky. Her nieces and nephews had been boggled hat she’d never seen _Doctor Who_ , and they’d been slowly marathoning their way through the old and new series ever since. Gran had made her a bright quilt of red and orange and yellow, and had tried to teach her to embroider pillow shams, but…well, the result wasn’t anything she’d be bringing to any fairs.

It was her space, and hers alone. Never in all her life had Lorna had a room that was only hers, and she liked it. It was warm and dry, two things that were also rather novel. Yes, it was very different from Thranduil’s posh bedroom, but it was _hers_ , filled with things bought with money she’d earned, not stolen.

Being a responsible adult really wasn’t as bad as she’d always thought it would be.

She struggled into a fresh pair of knickers and jeans – maternity jeans, ugh – and swapped out her shirt for a black-and-purple flannel that wasn’t a crumpled mess, even if it did have a scorch-mark near the bottom. (Who knew that irons had different settings? Not Lorna, and she’d found out the hard way why they were important.)

The sun was peeking through the clouds when she went down stairs, and found Thranduil avidly inspecting the refrigerator.

“How does this _work_?” he asked, taking out a green glass bottle of Mairead’s fizzy mineral water.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m learning a lot about modern humanity, too. All I can tell you is it’s powered by electricity.” She grabbed his hand. “C’mon, we can’t be late. You can ask Kevin about it later.”

“Kevin?” he said, putting the water back and shutting the door.

“My brother-in-law. He knows all about mechanical shite.” She all but dragged him out the door.

The walk to town wasn’t long, but her back ached by the end of it anyway, and then they got to deal with the staring. Oh, the _staring_.

Main Street was neither large nor crowded. It held the pub, the Market, the village’s only petrol station, a beauty parlor, and a few clothing shops that didn’t do a great deal of business. It also held the surgery, which even from the outside looked surprisingly crowded.

Or perhaps not so surprisingly. Marks of the storm were still everywhere, even as a number of locals worked to erase them. The streets were still filthy with mud, which had especially built up in the gutters, and the bases of the power-poles were surrounded by twigs and leaves that had fetched up there during the flood. One of the Market’s big plate-glass windows was boarded over with a big sheet of plywood, though she couldn’t imagine how it had got broken.

In any event, there were more people about then usual, and every last one of them stared. She didn’t wonder why; no doubt everyone who had been in the pub during the storm had told tales of their Elven visitor. Even those who hadn’t yet seen Thranduil would at least have got a description – and if they hadn’t known he was the one who knocked her up, they were about to find out.

She probably shouldn’t find that quite so hilarious.

They pushed their way into the surgery, which was at standing-room only capacity. While not precisely small, it was no hospital; the village wasn’t big enough to support one.

The walls of the waiting room were the same shade of beige she’d swear was mandatory in all medical facilities, but the walls were covered with photos taken by Doc Barry’s husband, rather than bland watercolors. He was pretty good, too; there were several of the village at sunset, and the fields when the wildflowers were in bloom – and a spectacular one of Thranduil’s forest, with all the oak trees turned red and orange in autumnal splendor.

There were a number of (rather uncomfortable) chairs, but at the moment, they were occupied by people with assorted broken limbs, three head wounds, and a dozen people who had to have the flu.

Of course the lost of them froze when she and Thranduil entered, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes. “Oh, give over, the lot’v you,” she sighed. “He’s Thranduil, not the bloody Slender Man.”

“ _What_ is the Slender Man?” he asked.

“I’ll have to introduce you to the Internet before I explain that one.” In truth, the Internet was fairly new to Lorna, too; until she’d moved in with Mairead, she hadn’t had access to it.

“Oh, joy,” he deadpanned. “Contrary to what you all appear to believe, I will not eat you,” he added, a little irritably.

Still nobody spoke, and Lorna sighed. “Well, you’ll have to get used to him sooner or later, so you’d best start now.”

Thankfully, her name was called before they could endure much more of _that_ awkwardness. They pushed through the crowd and followed one of Doc Barry’s nurses, a woman nearly as tiny as Lorna, with a nose ring and a jet-black pixie cut. Nuala, that was her name; Lorna had only ever seen her once.

The exam rooms were all rather cramped, and the ultrasound room was no exception; Thranduil had no choice but to stand in the corner. He eyed the machine with interest, and she was pleased he seemed intrigued by technology, even if it _was_ rather amusing – all the more so because she’d had that reaction to some of it herself. Computers and smartphones had been entirely new to her (along with irons, damn the things). She’d had something of a fight with what she considered to be Mairead’s needlessly complex microwave not long after moving in.

“I felt one’v them kick this morning,” she said, hoisting herself up onto the exam table with a grunt. “If they keep on like that, I’ll not get a proper night’s sleep until they’re born.”

“It’s about time one’v them gave you a boot,” Nuala said. Amusingly, she, like Siobhan, didn’t seem fazed by Thranduil at all. “Up with your shirt – let’s see what they’re doing in there.”

That was easier said than done, but once she’d managed it, Lorna laid back on the table. She’d had one of these already, so she was prepared for how cold the gel was before it got smeared all over her stomach.

“What is that for?” Thranduil asked.

“Makes it easier to get a reading,” Nuala said, holding up the boxy thing that would run over Lorna’s stomach. “All right, Lorna, hold your breath.”

Ugh, she hated this part. Hold it she did, while the rectangle passed over her stomach and Nuala taped away at her keyboard. The twins were basically still two lumps, but now they had recognizable arms and legs. Even as she watched, one of them kicked the other, who kicked back.

“ _God_ , that doesn’t feel half weird,” she said. “I hope that doesn’t mean they’ll do nothing but fight once they’re born.”

“They’ve only got so much room in there,” Nuala said, still tapping away. “They don’t like sharing. I think they’ll have their Da’s height,” she added, her dark eyes flicking to Thranduil. “They’re already big for their age.”

A sliver of ice worked its way into Lorna’s heart. “Does that mean I’ll have trouble having them?”

“Depends on how much bigger they get. If we have to, we’ll send you to Dublin for a C-section.”

“What is that?” Thranduil asked warily.

“Surgery,” Nuala said. “It’s common enough. They’ll make an incision here” – she drew a line across Lorna’s abdomen with her finger – “take the babies out, and staple her back up again.”

“Oh, bloody great,” Lorna sighed.

“You can _do_ that?” he asked, incredulous.

“Oh, we can do a lot more than that,” Nuala said. “You’ve missed out on a lot, living in your forest. We can replace people’s hearts if we’ve got to. A C-section’s nothing to worry about, though she’ll be in hospital a few days to recover, and she’ll have to be careful a while after that.”

He looked so disturbed that Lorna had to laugh. “If it helps, Thranduil, a lot’v this is new to me, too. It’s a learning experience for the both’v us.”

“I wish I had any healers left, to witness this,” he said. “They would have been fascinated.”

Again there was that sorrow in his voice, and Lorna really wished she could actually do something about it. How could _all_ of his people go off and leave him, knowing he’d be all alone? Why hadn’t at least a few of them stayed?

For that matter, how could _he_ stay? Yeah, he’d been born here, but staying in your own world couldn’t be that great if you were the only one of your kind in it. To knock about in those beautiful, empty caves for so long, probably swamped every minute by memories of his departed people…it was a wonder he wasn’t completely insane.

But maybe…maybe he _wasn’t_ the only one. Maybe there was some other, very lonely Elf on another continent, also thinking they were the last…there had to be some way to find one. She’d meant what she said – his home was too beautiful to be so empty. 

One way or another, she’d find more people to put in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be afraid, Thranduil. Lorna is a determined little critter. Then again, she’s got to be stubborn, if she’s going to be a match for you.
> 
> Title means “learning” in Irish. Reviews are the stuff of dreams.


	4. páirtí leapa gach rud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which trouble looms.

The healer with the strange machine printed Lorna a picture of the two blobs that were their children, which she insisted on showing to everyone in the pub. She all but dragged him out into the sunshine, beyond elated, clutching the picture as though it was made of pure gold. 

Thranduil wasn’t quite sure _why_ , given that they were, well, _blobs_ , but it appeared to be yet another Edain thing he didn’t understand. It gave her joy, which was what really mattered.

She led him to the pub, sneezing a few more times along the way (and really, _what_ purpose could that serve?), but paused.

“What is it?” he asked.

“That car’s not from here,” she said, pointing to a silvery…thing. “Might be best if we avoid the pub, for now. I’d rather nobody who isn’t local know you’re here.”

Quite honestly, he would prefer that, too. He had dealt with m more than enough staring for one day.

“Tell you what,” she said, tucking the picture into the pocket of her jacket, “come to my house and we can watch _Shaun of the Dead_ in the lounge, while no one’s home.”

He wondered if he was going to regret this.

\--

It occurred to Lorna that before she could have Thranduil watch a movie, she had to explain what a movie _was_. It was surprisingly difficult, because apparently Elves didn’t even have _plays_.

“It’s a story,” she said, digging her keys out of her pocket, “acted out by people. Basically, what you’re watching isn’t real, but people acting parts from something somebody wrote.”

“So they are not _really_ zombies?” Thranduil asked, a little dryly.

“Not yet,” she said. “It’ll happen eventually, and then we’ll all be down in your caves while the surface world falls apart.”

“That remains a horrific thought,” he said, following her in once she got the door open.

“It’d be amazing and you know it.” She shed her coat, and struggled to shed her boots, almost tripping over the right. The ultrasound she stuck to the fridge with a Hello Kitty magnet. “Shoes off here, or Mairead’ll kill us both.”

Thranduil wanted to scoff, but he didn’t quite dare. Lorna’s sister reminded him of the warrior-women he had occasionally run across in his travels when he was young. Besides, having been married once before, he knew the importance of family-by-marriage.

He hesitated to tell Lorna of Anameleth and Legolas, though he didn’t know why. She herself had been wed once before, and even isolated as he was, he knew the Edain didn’t consider re-marriage the sacrilege that the Eldar did – or had. He was the only one left now, so he supposed he made all the rules.

“All right,” Lorna said, leading him into a room with a dark-green divan – a very large divan, that wrapped around two sides of the room. “Let’s begin your education.”

\--

Mairead was deeply troubled, and she knew she wasn’t the only one.

She drove home as fast as she dared, praying Lorna was there. Her hands weren’t quite steady on the wheel, nor was her foot on the gas. Of all the rotten luck.

When she pulled into the driveway, she slapped the e-brake almost before the car had stopped, and hurried into the house. The door was unlocked, but there were two pairs of boots beside the wall – Lorna’s, and some of extremely fine grey leather, that Mairead could only imagine belonging to one person.

 _Shit_. 

The TV was on, very loud, and when she went into the lounge, she found something she never, ever would have thought she would see:

Lorna and _Lord bloody Thranduil_ were snuggled up on the sofa, watching _Shaun of the Dead._

What.

“This is absolutely disgusting,” he said. “How can these film-makers make such carnage look so real?”

“That,” Lorna said, “is the magic of special effects.”

Mairead shook her head. She couldn’t even. “I need a word with the pair’v you,” she said, marching over to the DVD player and hitting the pause button.

“Oi, you’ve still got your shoes on!” Lorna said, pointing an accusing finger at her feet.

Mairead rolled her eyes. “I was in a hurry. Lord Thranduil, apparently old Orla’s actually had guests the day’v the storm, and one’v them saw you. They’ve been asking after you ever since, but I don’t think anyone’s told them anything.”

Her sister paled, but visibly rallied. “So what if they did see him? Sure, he’s creepy, but it’s not like he’s got a third eye on his forehead or something. He could pass for human to someone who didn’t know any better.”

“Not with those ears, he can’t,” Mairead retorted. “Lord Thranduil, you’d best stay out’v town until they’ve gone. Most people wouldn’t believe what you are if you were standing in front’v them, but these two sound like crackpots who would. Nobody in the village’ll rat you out, but you might find a few poking around your forest anyway.”

He didn’t look at all pleased by that, and she couldn’t blame him. It really was terrible luck – _nobody_ ever came through their sleepy little village. It was one of the sort that was shrinking, not growing, with the majority of its young people moving away to find jobs. It wasn’t near enough any tourist destinations to garner many tourists; usually the only people old Orla’s inn were those who had got lost on their way to somewhere else, and it was far past the end of tourist season.

“I thank you for the warning, Mistress Mairead,” he said. “Trust me, no one will find me.”

She wasn’t quite sure she wanted to know what would happen to anyone who did. Lorna had assured her he’d never killed anyone, but _still_. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t start, if he felt it necessary to protect his secret and his forest.

\--

Big Jamie was about ready to punch these two. Well, the man, anyway; he couldn’t hit a woman, no matter how unwittingly obnoxious she was.

They were an American couple, twenty-three and twenty-four respectively, and unlike most strangers, they were actually here on _purpose._

“We’re paranormal investigators,” the man – Bryan – said. He was brown-haired and tanned, with the whitest teeth Big Jamie had ever seen outside of a pensioner’s dentures. “We read that you’ve got a local legend about one of the Fair Folk.”

Big Jamie dearly wondered _where_ they read it. Everyone in the village had known about Lord Thranduil for generations, but he was rarely spoken of, and certainly not to outsiders.

He snorted. “Lad, if you’re going to investigate myths and stories, you’ll be a long time looking for what doesn’t exist,” he said, polishing a mug a little more vigorously than necessary.

“But we saw him,” the woman – Jennifer – said, pulling out her phone.

Big Jamie very nearly swore. She’d actually caught a picture of Lord Thranduil striding through the rain, perfectly dry himself, with those bloody ears of his clearly visible.

“That’s no fairy,” he said, thinking fast. “That’s just Jimmy. He’s got that same thing for plastic surgery that Michael Jackson did. He’s a bit weird in the head, to be honest.”

The girl seemed undeterred. She too had unnaturally white teeth, and her blond-streaked hair was just as unnaturally sleek. “Then why is his hair dry, even in all that rain?”

Again, Big Jamie thought furiously. “Because it’s not really his hair – it’s a wig. It _is_ wet, only you can’t tell. I saw him without it once, and he’s bald as a baby.” He prayed Lord Thranduil would forgive him for _that_ one, should he ever hear of it. “If you’re going to travel in Ireland, you’d best realize that every village has at least one right eccentric. Granted, Jimmy’s weirder than most, but they’re all a bit touched in the head.”

Jennifer looked disappointed, but not disappointed enough, and he had a sinking feeling that they were going to keep digging. Somebody had to warn Lorna to keep Lord Thranduil in his forest, until someone could find a way to get rid of these two.

\--

Thranduil left at dark, and Lorna was in no good mood. She couldn’t go with him – she had more appointments that she couldn’t miss – and he couldn’t safely come out of his forest until the strangers had gone.

She’d asked him why he couldn’t just hunt them down and wipe their memories, but he said it would only work inside his forest. The two would leave on their own, probably sooner rather than later.

Meanwhile, Lorna sat on the sofa, moodily eating ice cream straight out of the tub. He was supposed to go her Lamaze class on Friday, and if this pair kept him from it, she’d lamp both their lights out and leave them tied up in Big Jamie’s beer cellar until it was over.

 _Damn_ it. He was less likely to want to come into the village if he thought he might be discovered. He’d go back to being isolated in the forest save for her, and eventually the twins. She wanted to show him the world outside his woods, wanted him to learn some of the things she was learning alongside her. In a very real sense, she’d been outside of the loop herself, always having been so impoverished and/or homeless. Her generation had supposedly grown up living and breathing technology, but she sure as hell hadn’t. Lorna hadn’t even touched a computer until she moved in with Mairead, and she still didn’t have a mobile. Some aspects of the modern world were as much a mystery to her as they were to Thranduil.

And they were supposed to be figuring it out together, dammit. If the strangers weren’t out of town by tomorrow night, they were each getting a boot up their arse.

\--

Lorna got little sleep that night, mostly because the twins were apparently knocking the stuff out of each other in her uterus. She woke in an even worse mood, not helped by her annoyingly decaf tea. _God_ , she was never doing this again. Such clean living absolutely sucked.

She was too restless to loaf about the house, so she swapped her pyjama trousers for jeans, grabbed her ultrasound picture off the fridge, and waddled her way into town. (And Christ, she was actually _waddling_. The next three months were going to be a _nightmare_.)

She saw the strange little silver car parked outside the pub, and her eyes narrowed. _Don’t do it, Lorna_ , she told herself. She’d show Big Jamie and the regulars her ultrasound, and she’d behave herself. Surely she could manage that.

The pub still had all the windows open that _could_ open, letting in the fresh, chilly air, and letting out some of the mildew smell. She wondered how long it would take to get the floor fixed.

The strangers were sitting at the bar, talking to Big Jamie, who looked annoyed. Lorna did her best to ignore them, and went to rescue him, slapping the ultrasound on the counter.

“They’ve already started beating each other up,” he said. “I hope that’s not a bad sign. If they’re kicking each other in utero, Christ knows what they’ll be like when they’re born.”

He laughed, brightening immediately, and held the picture up to the light. “Christ, they’re big.”

“I know,” she grumbled, struggling up onto a stool. “Nuala says I might have to go to Dublin for a C-section. I haven’t told Mairead – she’ll piss herself.”

“Boys or girls?” the stranger-woman asked – American, by her accent, and she sounded perfectly nice, which made Lorna feel rather bad about still wanting to kick her.

“One’v each,” she said instead. “They’ve still got three months to finish cooking.”

“Their dad must be glad to see that,” the man said.

Lorna had a brief flash of panic. “He is,” she said, hoping like hell they wouldn’t ask any more questions. “How’d you wind up here, though? We’re not exactly a tourist destination.”

“We’re amateur paranormal investigators,” the woman said, smiling. God but her teeth were white. It was a little scary. “I’m Jennifer, and this is Bryan, my boyfriend. We’ve read that you have one of the Fair Folk around here, living in those woods.”

Time to lie. Lorna snorted. “What, those out north’v town? I’ve been up there a few times – there’s nothing but trees and about seven thousand squirrels. I wouldn’t go in, if I was you – there’s no paths, and it’d be really easy to get lost.”

“Locals have, from time to time,” Big Jamie said, following her lead. “And it’s easier to freeze to death on an Irish night than you’d think.”

The pair were visibly disappointed. “You’ve really never seen _anything_?” Bryan asked.

“Nothing supernatural,” she said. “I came out with six ticks on my legs once, though.”

Jennifer shuddered, and Lorna hoped like hell that would be enough. If they went to the forest, she doubted it would end well, even if Thranduil _did_ wipe their memories.

“If it’s ghosts or whatever that you’re after, your best bet’d actually be Dublin,” she added. “I grew up there, and Trinity’s said to be haunted. As for Fair Folk, it’s Scotland you’d be wanting, not Ireland. If they even exist, they wouldn’t stay in a country this crowded.”

“We couldn’t afford that until next year,” Bryan said gloomily. “Maybe we’ll go up to the woods anyway. We can take some pretty pictures, at least.”

 _Shit_. 

Lorna had no idea what to do. She ought to get up to the forest and warn Thranduil before the Americans got a chance to head that way themselves, but she simply couldn’t walk fast enough.

And now she’d just wee’d herself.

Wait, _what_? No, that wasn’t wee…

Oh, shit.

“Jamie,” she said, her voice high and strangled, “I think my waters’v just broken.”

He paled. “Lorna, it’s—”

“Too early? I know. Doc Barry said twins were usually premature, but – fuck, Jamie, what do I _do_?” He had three kids, he had to have some idea.

“I’ll ring Doc Barry,” he said, tripping over his own feet as he ran for the phone.

“If you haven’t been feeling any contractions yet, you should be fine,” Jennifer said soothingly. “There’s plenty of time to get you to a hospital. You said you’re what, six months? With good antenatal care, your children will be okay.”

“Are you a doctor?” Lorna asked, fighting her rising panic and losing.

“Pediatric nurse. Three months is pretty premature, but any competent hospital ought to be able to take care of the three of you just fine. Meanwhile, let’s get you lying down somewhere.”

Lorna had absolutely no idea how that would help anything, but she wasn’t the one who knew what she was doing. She slid off the stool, grimacing at the feel of her wet jeans, her heart lurching in her chest. God, she wanted Thranduil, and with these two here, she couldn’t have him. Not that there was any way to get ahold of him even if they hadn’t been.

Jennifer helped her up onto at able, holding her hand, and oh, how Lorna wished she could hate her. She wished she could hate them both, but they were too damn genuinely concerned. _Why_ did they have to actually be _nice_?

Big Jamie came hurrying over, still white as a sheet. “I’ve run Doc Barry and Mairead,” he said. “Doc’s sending over the ambulance to take you to Dublin.”

Lorna groaned. “You called my _sister_? Sure God, Jamie, I can’t deal with that on top’v everything else!”

“She can bring everyone else as needs to go,” he said pointedly.

Oh.

“They can’t _all_ go,” she said, just as pointedly, and hissed as sudden pain tore through her. It wasn’t unendurable, but it hurt nonetheless. “ _Shit_ , either that was a contraction, or I really need to fart.”

Bryan choked back a laugh, and Jennifer kicked him. “There’s no hurry,” she said. “Your family will have time to follow. With twins, it’s usually a long labor.”

“Sure I didn’t need to hear that,” Lorna groaned.

“In your case, that’s a good thing,” Jennifer said, squeezing her hand. “You’ll be safe in the hospital by the time they’re ready to come out.”

The wail of sirens approached – really, that was rather unnecessary – and the ambulance skidded to a halt outside the window. The driver and Nuala actually trundled a damn _gurney_ out the back, which also seemed like overkill, but at this point Lorna was hardly going to complain.

“I guess they _really_ don’t like sharing, if they want out this early,” Nuala said, as soon as they’d burst through the door.

“At least neither’v them’s tried to strangle the other yet,” Lorna grunted, as another wave of pain passed through her. God _damn_ she wanted Thranduil, because no matter what Jennifer had to say, she was terrified. Yeah, Doc Barry had said twins could be premature, but she’d meant like a month, not two and a half. Jennifer didn’t seem at all worried, but Lorna was sweaty and dizzy and ready to pee herself, which at least no one would notice, given how wet (and cold) her jeans were.

She let herself get manhandled onto the gurney, mostly because she couldn’t actually help, and grit her teeth against another contraction. They weren’t supposed to be coming this close together yet, right? _Shit_. If she popped these kids out in the ambulance, she’d kill someone. She wasn’t sure _who_ , but _someone_.

\--

Mairead’s heart was just about crosswise when she ran across the fields to Lord Thranduil’s forest. As much as she wanted to follow Lorna straightaway, he needed to know what was going on.

She hesitated briefly at the forest’s edge – she had, after all, been told her entire life it was too dangerous to enter. But it was broad daylight now, the trees like beautiful torches, and she had a mission, dammit.

“Lord Thranduil?” she called, stepping under the canopy. She had no idea where he lived in here, or how to find him. “Lord Thranduil, I need to talk to you. Lorna’s gone into premature labor – I’ve come to take you to Dublin.”

No answer. _Dammit_. She really needed to get him a mobile, and find some way for him to keep it charged.

“Lord Thranduil – oh. There you are.”

There he was indeed, tall and terrifying, swathed in his black coat. At least it looked semi-normal, if extremely posh.

“Take this,” she said, holding out a hair-tie, “and tie your hair back so it covers your ears. We’re going to Dublin.”

Take it he did, his fingers so very unnervingly long. “It is too soon for her to birth those children,” he said, pulling his hair behind his shoulders. Though his face was like a porcelain mask, there was worry in his creepy eyes.

“If she can hold on until they reach hospital, they’ll be fine,” she said, and hoped she was right. “She’ll want you there, but you’ve got to try to act like one’v us, if you can. Not that anyone’d believe you are what you are, but still. Better safe than sorry.”

He said nothing, but he followed her. With his ears hidden, he was still imposing and creepy, but at least he could pass for human.

“All right, when we get to the hospital, let me talk,” she said. “They’ll want paperwork, so I’ll do that. Say you’re her boyfriend, not her husband, or they’ll wonder why you’re not the one doing it. All you’ve got to do is sit and wait to see if they’ll let you into the delivery room.”

“Why would they not?” he asked.

“If they give her a C-section, they’ll not let anyone in. She’d either be drugged or unconscious anyway, so she’d not know if we _were_ there,” Mairead said, digging her car keys out of her purse.

“There is a very strong chance the twins will have my ears,” he said. “I hope that will not be a problem.”

She groaned. “Well, they’ll be so small that I hope nobody’ll notice. A baby this premature would probably fit in your hand, if not in mine.”

When she turned, she found him eying her SUV with visible unease. “Come on,” she said. “It’s an Explorer, not a monster.” She hopped in, turning it on, but he was noticeably hesitant when he got in himself.

“Seatbelt,” she ordered. “And be glad I don’t drive like Lorna. There’s a reason she’s not allowed to use my car.”

\--

It had been centuries since Thranduil had been truly terrified, but he was now – and not just because he feared for Lorna and the children. By the time they reached what Mairead called a motorway, he decided that cars were one Edain thing he could definitely do without. Nothing, he was sure, was meant to travel so fast.

And if this was how Mairead drove, he never, ever wanted to ride with Lorna. The woman wove and dodged her way around all the other cars, racing more swiftly than the rest of them, swearing rather like Lorna whenever anyone got in her way.

“Is the city going to be like this?” he asked.

“City’ll be worse. I’ll get us there in one piece.”

Perhaps she would, but only after leaving broken things – and people – in her wake.

\--

Thranduil, Lorna decided, was an absolute dead man.

Lying in the back of an ambulance, an oxygen mask on her face, lacking both boots and trousers, with great, dragging pains tearing through her at alarmingly close intervals – why would anyone _want_ to do this? This was all his fault, the bastard, and he wasn’t even here to let her break his hand.

“Hang on, Lorna,” Nuala said. “You’re doing fine.”

“Bloody easy for you to say,” Lorna snarled. “You’re not the one – _Christ_ , how has Mairead done this four times? And _why_?” It felt like someone was trying to hacksaw through her gut.

“Couldn’t tell you that one,” Nuala said, adjusting her oxygen mask. “Just keep breathing. I’m sure Mairead’ll drag Thranduil by the hair if she has to.”

God, there was a terrifying thought. Lorna had no doubt at all that she’d do it, though she also doubted it would be necessary. Thranduil would come all on his own.

 _That_ could end badly.

“Nuala, when we’re there, you’ve got to corral him when he turns up,” she groaned. The oxygen was making her even dizzier, but at this point it was welcome. “You don’t even understand how unprepared he is for Dublin. This could go so, _so_ badly wrong. _Christ_ , why’d he have to knock me up with _twins_?” A normal baby she could have just had at the surgery, no hospital trip needed.

“Technically, that’s your fault,” Nuala said, her warm fingers pressing over Lorna’s pulse. “Blame your ovaries for dropping two eggs at once, and I need you to breathe deeper, Lorna. Try to relax.”

Oh, right, like _that_ was going to happen. She was cold, she was in pain, and the village was fifty miles from Dublin – God knew how long it would take to get there.

Yeah, Thranduil was a dead man.

\--

An ambulance went screaming down the M7, scattering the cars before it. A dark red Ford Explorer, weaving through traffic rather like the motorway was a pinball machine, came up behind it, followed by a silvery Prius, a battered green Jeep, four motorcycles, a rusting hulk that had once been a Dodge Dart, and a black minivan stuffed far past capacity. Half the village was following Lorna to the hospital, because where she went, so did Lord Thranduil, and _someone_ had to keep him out of trouble Nobody thought for a second that he could handle that himself.

\--

By the time they reached the hospital, Lorna wasn’t having contractions so much as one long, endless note of pain. The only speech she was capable of was a litany of cursing.

She was going to kill Thranduil. She really, really was.

\--

Shelagh Reilly was bored.

She’d thought working the triage desk of a big A& E would be exciting, like in all those American shows, but the reality of it was far more boring.

Or had been, anyway.

An unfamiliar ambulance pulled up outside, offloading a gurney containing a young, very tiny pregnant woman, cursing so loud Shelagh could hear her all the way through the door.

A tall redheaded woman came rushing up from the car park, followed by an even taller man – possibly the most attractive man Shelagh had ever seen, his long hair so blond it was nearly silver. And behind _them_ were about thirty or forty other people, all following the gurney in.

“I’ll kill you,” the little woman snarled, gripping the blond man’s hand in a way that made Shelagh wince. “I’ll snap your spout off and shove it up your damn arse!”

The redhead burst out laughing, and tried to smother it behind her hand.

The nurse accompanying the gurney rolled her eyes, though she too was laughing. “She’s twenty-nine, six months along, with twins. First labor, and her contractions are – well, pretty much continuous, but she’s nowhere near dilated enough.”

“D’you hear that?” the patient snapped, glaring up at the blond man. “You and your demon spawn broke my snatch!”

Shelagh choked on her own spit. She couldn’t laugh, _shouldn’t_ laugh, and yet she couldn’t help it. “If you’re the da, you can go on back,” she said, tapping information into the computer. “The rest’v you….” God, where could she put the rest of them?” “The cafeteria’s the only place you’ll all fit.”

“I’m her sister,” the redhead said. “I’m going with her, too. Her boyfriend’s English, he’s not got a clue how things work here.”

Shelagh waved her away. This, she thought, might get _really_ interesting.

\--

The hospital would have been overwhelming, if Thranduil had let himself focus on it, but he didn’t. He _couldn’t_ , not when Lorna was all but crushing his hand. For an Edain, she was shockingly strong.

She wouldn’t let go even when a number of white-garbed healers approached. “He got me into this,” she snarled. “He can damn well suffer, too.”

The man who appeared to be the head healer looked at him, and Thranduil shrugged. “Gainsaying her would not be wise,” he said.

“Then follow me,” the healer sighed.

They were led into a room rather like those in the village’s healing wards, though much larger, and Thranduil had to fight not to break the man’s neck when he removed Lorna’s undergarment to peer between her legs. That was his _job_.

“I’m afraid you’ll need a Caesarian, Miss Donovan,” he said. “Sir, you can’t be in the surgical room.”

Lorna released his hand, albeit reluctantly. “You’d best be here when I wake up, or I’ll murder you in your sleep.”

“I will be with your sister, Lorna,” he said, as soothingly as he could. “I will come to you as soon as I am able.”

It took all his willpower not to follow her, but he didn’t. Instead he went to Mairead, and prayed to whatever Vala might still be listening that he was not about to lose his wife.

\--

Lord Thranduil’s pacing was going to drive Mairead insane.

It was what all expectant fathers did, especially the first time, but _still_. He was worse about it than anyone she’d ever seen. If there was one thing she’d learned about her sister in the last nine month, it was that Lorna was tougher than old shoe leather. She _had_ to be, in order to have survived the wreck that killed her husband in the first place. And if those twins were anything like either parent, they’d be just fine.

He was freaking everyone else out, too. The waiting-room had a large number of people not from the village, and all of them were watching him warily, this agitated blond giant with eyes like ice. Lord Thranduil might not kill people, but Mairead had no doubt at all that he _could_ , if he wanted to.

And _that_ made her nervous. On the off chance something should happen to Lorna, Mairead really didn’t want to know what he would do.

“Will you calm down?” she said eventually. “My last was a C-section. They’ve been at it about half an hour – another ten minutes and they’ll come tell us she’s fine.”

“You cannot be sure of that,” he said tersely.

“I can’t be _sure_ ’v anything, but I’m close on this. Lorna and those sprogs’ll be _fine_ , so sit down before you give someone heart failure.”

His glare made her quail, but he sat anyway, tense and ramrod-straight, staring at nothing.

For the first time, she wondered just how he’d conned Lorna into sleeping with him the day they met. Lorna wasn’t that sort – she’d only ever gone to bed with Liam, and that was well after they’d known one another. Had he bewitched her somehow? He’d said he could wipe memories, so it stood to reason he could manipulate them, too. Did he somehow manage the Elf version of date rape, and Lorna hadn’t minded?

Had Lorna even worked it out?

Oh, he seemed to genuinely care about her, in some way, but _still_. That just wasn’t how people were meant to go about things. Once everything was safely over, Mairead was confronting him with it, because if she was right, that was just wrong.

Eventually, a tall, dark-haired nurse appeared, and called her name.

“It’s all done,” she said, leading them down a corridor that smelled too much like disinfectant. “Little boy and little girl, as healthy as they can be at this stage. They’ll need to stay in pediatric for at least a fortnight, just to be safe, but there’ve been no complications at all.”

“Thank bloody God,” Mairead sighed. “How is she?”

“Asleep, at the moment, but you can go see her. She ought to wake up in about half an hour.”

They arrived at a recovery room, white and sterile, the lights muted. Through the small window, they could see the sun setting red over Dublin, the buildings casting long shadows over streets and cars.

Lorna was indeed asleep, and looked even smaller than she actually was. She was a little person, but she projected such energy that it was easy to think she was taller. Her long black braid had come half undone, her fringe stuck to her forehead with dried sweat, and her skin ashy.

Lord Thranduil moved forward before Mairead could, taking Lorna’s tiny right hand – it looked even tinier in his. Yes, there was _something_ there, all the more obvious when he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned down to kiss her forehead, but there was no way he actually _loved_ her, because he simply hadn’t known her long enough.

“Well, that’s adorable,” the nurse said, and shut the curtain before she left them.

Mairead pulled up a chair, sitting at the left side of the bed. “Lord Thranduil, how the hell did you seduce my baby sister?” she asked. “Sleeping with somebody she’s just met isn’t like her.”

“She felt my desire,” he said, still looking at Lorna, “and mirrored it. Which I did not do out of conscious will, before you ask. You must understand, Mistress Mairead, Eldar do not lightly lie with another, either. It was the first time she had seen me, but not the first time I had seen her. And yes, she has made me very aware that your people would count that as ‘creepy’.”

He looked at her. “I married her, Mistress Mairead, because I knew that I could love her, given time. I had not planned on telling _her_ that, however, until I managed to earn her love in return. She has assured me I may still court her, so long as I no longer keep secrets where she is concerned.”

“And have you?” Mairead asked suspiciously.

“No. Where Lorna is concerned, I have none. Yes, there is much I have not told her, but I have six thousand years worth of things to tell. That will take rather a long time.”

“I _knew_ it,” someone said, from the other side of the curtain – a woman. An _American_ woman.

Lord Thranduil froze, and Mairead felt the blood drain from her face, but Lorna, her voice thick with sleep, spoke for them both:

“Oh, fuck everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, things couldn’t remain simple for long. 
> 
> Title means “fuck everything” in Irish. As always, your reviews give me love.


	5. Trioblóidí

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryan and Jennifer continue to cause problems, Thranduil is sweet (in a slightly creepy way), and the villagers remain quite protective of him.

Mairead, for once, had no idea what to do. None whatsoever.

Lord Thranduil, on the other hand, didn’t seem to share that problem at all. He rose, just a touch too smoothly, and his expression made her heart lurch – it was just this side of murderous.

He pulled back the curtain, revealing Jennifer _and_ Bryan, both as delighted as children. Jennifer was holding a small red video camera – which Lord Thranduil grabbed and crushed with one hand.

“In here, both of you,” he said, snatching each by the collar and jerking them further into the room, shutting the door behind them.

“And what, precisely, were you planning to do with that?” he asked, low and terrible. “Put it on that Internet? Lead more thrill-seekers to my forest, until I do not dare leave? Would you truly make my children and I prisoners in our own home?”

Judging by both their expressions, neither had thought of that. “But,” Jennifer said, licking her bloodless lips, “but people should know about you.”

“People _do_ know about me, you wretched child,” he snapped, his pale eyes burning like mercury. “They are the only people I _wish_ to know of me. I have no desire at all to wind up in some government facility, dissected.”

Lorna, Mairead thought dazedly, must have been showing him _The X-Files_. With these two, that might actually work. It might be the only thing that _would_ work. Anyone who would believe in Elves without knowing the existed was probably also a conspiracy theorist.

“We just – we wanted to see you,” Jennifer said, her voice very small.

“And now you have,” Lord Thranduil said shortly. “However, if you tell anyone else, I will hunt you down and kill you both.”

“ _Thranduil_ ,” Lorna said muzzily. “No killing people. Remind me to make you watch the second _Terminator_ movie.”

The poor kids looked like they were about to faint, but Mairead couldn’t feel _too_ sorry for them. Not when they could still potentially create a disaster. “We, um, we won’t,” Bryan said – and fled, dragging his girlfriend after him.

Mairead sighed. “They will,” she said, “but without evidence, nobody’ll believe them.” She hoped, anyway. There were a lot of crazy people in the world.

\--

Thranduil was in no good mood when he went to view the twins – tailed by Big Jamie and Nuala.

“Let us ask the questions, if you’ve got any,” she said quietly. “You’re foreign, remember? We’re your…interpreters, sort’v thing.”

He had to marvel a little at these people – they had only met him five months ago, yet they were extremely protective of him. Perhaps there was some benefit to being a local legend.

Certainly, right now, he needed them, for this hospital was unlike anything he had ever seen – the tiny healers’ ward in the village hadn’t been nearly preparation enough. Edain, everywhere, garbed either in white coats or soft, pale trousers and shirts, moving hither and yon, not a single step without purpose. The walls, flat and white, reflected unpleasant light of the overhead lamps in a way that made his eyes hurt, and while he couldn’t identify many of the smells, he liked none of them.

It was nothing at all like the healing wards of the Eldar, with their soft beds and myriad herbs – this was stark and impersonal, and he wished his small family need not linger.

And yet, when they reached what Big Jamie called the pediatric ward, he saw why they must.

Behind a window, both of his children sat in small glass boxes, clear tubes up their noses, and more attached to their limbs. They were so _tiny_ …Mairead was right – one could easily fit in his hand.

“Why are there blue lamps above them?” he asked.

“They were probably born jaundiced,” Big Jamie said. “My youngest was. Means their livers aren’t working right, but something in blue light fixes that.”

“They look so fragile,” Thranduil said, laying his right hand on the window.

“Just now, they are,” Nuala said. “It’s why they’ve got to stay here, for now. One’v those tubes up their noses is oxygen, so they’ve not got to try to breathe on their own, and the other’s a feeding-tube. The one in their arms, that’s saline, so they don’t get dehydrated. Basically, an incubator’s like an external uterus, so they finish cooking, so to speak.”

“I had no idea Edain had advanced so much,” he said, half to himself. “May I hold them?”

“Not quite yet,” Nuala said. “Their immune systems’re non-existent just now. Maybe tomorrow, once everyone’s certain they’re stable. Once they are, the staff’ll want you to hold them as much as you can, though – nobody knows why, but premature babies do better when they’re held. I’ll have the staff bring you a cot, so you can stay in Lorna’s room.”

“I will not sleep for several days,” he said, turning to her.

She fixed him with a very stern look. “You’ve got to pretend you do,” she said, quietly but firmly. “And pretend you need to eat as much as a human. You’re meant to be one’v us here, remember? Doctors and nurses pay more attention than most people – if you don’t act like one’v us, they’ll notice. And then they’ll wonder.”

 _That_ was aggravating. Oh well. It would hardly kill them.

\--

Lorna had no idea how long she slept, but when she woke, she was high as the stars.

For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was, but the tubes in her arms and the scratchy hospital sheets let her know soon enough. While her abdomen wasn’t sore, it felt… _alien_ , and not only because it was empty. “What day is it?” she asked, her voice little more than a faint rasp.

“Wednesday,” Thranduil said. “You’ve only been asleep for seven hours.”

She looked at him. “Feels like seven hundred years,” she said. _He_ didn’t look at all tired, the bastard. “I am never doing that again. We’re doing to have to hope birth control actually works. How’re the twins?”

“Fine, according to Nuala. We might be able to hold them tomorrow.” He took her hand, folding his long fingers around it. “You scared me, little Lorna,” he said. “Don’t do that again.”

“Not my fault,” she said, groping with her free hand for the button that would let her raise the bed. She was reminded, far too much, of the _last_ time she’d been in hospital – when she’d lost a pregnancy, not been delivered of one. She’d _hurt_ , so, so much, because morphine couldn’t do a thing for the ache in her heart.

But now she looked at Thranduil, who unlike Liam was very alive. Even in the low light of the room, his pale eyes seemed to glow, and the smooth planes and angles of his face were somewhat more relaxed. To her, he looked rather wrong with all his silvery hair pulled back, mostly because it was so unlike him.

“What are we, Thranduil?” she croaked. She’d always sworn that when she had a family, it would be with someone she loved – but, while she was very fond of Thranduil, she didn’t love him. She simply hadn’t known him long enough.

“We are what we are,” he said, taking a plastic cup of water from the tray beside her bed and handing it to her. Its contents were lukewarm, but she didn’t mind. “Admittedly I have gone about this courtship rather backward, but I did not know if you would _wish_ to be courted – all I knew was that you wanted a child.”

Lorna drained the rest of her glass, trying to soothe her parched throat. “You,” she said, “are weird, but I can’t exactly say I object. I’d best keep you away from Gran, though. I wouldn’t put it past her to try to brain you with her ladle. She wasn’t best pleased that you knocked me up out’v wedlock.”

Thranduil smirked. Really, she’d never known anyone who could smirk like him. “I would imagine she is,” he said. “Before you, your grandmother was the only Edain who had spoken to me – so to speak – in for seven hundred years. When she was a girl, she caught me lurking without a permit outside her cottage – and evidently took exception to it, for she opened the door, hurled a pot at me, and told me to ‘fuck off right back to the forest and get off the lawn’.”

Lorna laughed so hard her incision ached. That sounded like Gran, all right. “Did you?”

“Of course not,” he said, a touch imperiously. “I stood and stared until dawn. She was not _quite_ brave enough to come outside and confront me, but I could tell she wanted to.”

Lorna laughed all the harder. “She told me you’d either kill me or knock me up,” she said, curling onto her side. “Have you knocked anyone else up I should know about?”

He snorted. “No. In centuries past, women in that area who got with child out of wedlock would often blame me. Who was going to gainsay anyone, if I did not? You are the only Edain I have ever, as you say, ‘knocked up’.”

She reached out with her free hand to trace his knuckles. “D’you have any other children, Thranduil?”

“One,” he said, and she wasn’t at all surprised at the sorrow in his voice. “Legolas left for Valinor a thousand years ago. I know he waits for me, but – I cannot go. For some reason unknown to me, the very though fills me with horror.”

“It might not always,” she said, twining her fingers through his. “In another hundred years, this world might not be worth living in, and not just for someone like you. Maybe you and the sprogs’ll go to Valinor. You – you know I’ve only got like sixty years left, right? Seventy if I’m lucky, but…not long, by your standards.”

“I know,” he said, raising her hand and kissing the back of it. “And once, we would have been sundered until the end of the world, but I have lingered so long in this one that I think, when I die, I will follow you.”

Lorna didn’t want to think about Thranduil ever dying. The mere idea was wrong. “Well, in this life we need a plan,” she said. “I don’t trust those idiots not to say something to someone, and I’ll not have your forest overrun with tourists.”

“Later,” he said, kissing her forehead. “For now, you need rest. Sleep, Firieth Dithen.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, yawning.

“I will tell you later.”

\--

Jennifer didn’t think she’d ever been so close to peeing her pants in her entire life. Her legs were still shaking when she clambered into the Prius, her heart galloping like sixty, as her grandpa would say.

She and Bryan had hunted paranormal things since high school, just because they could. Her parents had made the mistake of letting her watch _The X-Files_ when she was a kid – in addition to scaring the shit out of her, it had also made her firmly believe that the truth was out there, and that she had to find it.

Except now, shivering in the passenger seat, she kind of wished she hadn’t.

The story of Lord Thranduil was an extremely obscure one, which was why she and Bryan had decided to investigate – it was doubtful many other people had. But she hadn’t been prepared for the reality of it. At all.

Aliens and ghosts and stuff – they were, well, _alien_ , and visibly so. Lord Thranduil could pass for human – until you looked closer, and realized how very alien he was himself. It wasn’t his ears, either, which they hadn’t actually seen up close anyway. There was an otherworldliness to him, something fey and _dangerous_. Looking into those silver- flecked eyes, she’d had a horrible fear he would try to rip out her soul – and an even more horrible suspicion he would _succeed_.

Part of her wanted to run home and never look back. The other part needed to know Lord Thranduil’s story, though she couldn’t imagine how they were to find it out.

“Now what?” Bryan asked, his hand shaking as he jammed the key into the ignition.

She thought a moment. “Well, all our stuff’s in the village,” she said, “and we know Lord Thranduil’s here, and not in his forest. You know how we always wanted to be Mulder and Scully? Let’s go be Mulder and Scully. If we find anything, I am so dyeing my hair red again.”

\--

Bridie Monaghan sat up late, seated by her woodstove, sewing in the lamplight.

She’d worn her mother’s wedding-dress, when she married in 1945 – thanks to the war, there had been neither money nor fabric to make one of her own. It had been out of fashion by then, having been made in 1920, but it was a beautiful garment, made of a smooth fall of ivory silk stolen by a relative working in England and mailed home in a box of oddments. Lorna was as tiny as her great-grandmother had been; it wouldn’t take much alteration to make it fit, and it was simple enough that she wouldn’t be lost in it, as she would in a modern dress. It still smelled strongly of mothballs, but there was time enough to air it out.

That Lord Thranduil…he was a menace and no mistake, sending that girl up the yard with her husband not yet dead a year. He wasn’t Bridie’s first choice for a grandson-in-law, but according to Mairead, in his mind, he already was. At least he wasn’t one of these useless young twats that would knock a girl up and leave – but then, that might not be as good as it sounded.

All the stories handed down through the years could agree on one thing: Lord Thranduil was possessive of what he considered his. And Lorna, tough-minded creature that she was, would not take kindly to being possessed. There were millions who would swoon at the mere thought, but Lorna was a sturdy, independent little pragmatist. She’d be horrified.

Those two, Bridie predicted, were going to have some _fantastic_ rows.

\--

Lorna slept, and Thranduil brushed her hair, twining the long black strands around his fingers as he did. So few Edain wore their hair long anymore, but hers was so long and thick that when she left it free, she almost seemed more hair than woman. Even in the anemic glow of the muted overhead light, the silver threads shone. She would have her grandmother’s hair, when she grew old.

Except he had no intention of _letting_ her grow old. There were legends of ways for an Edain to gain the life of the Eldar, and while he was sure they were merely legends, he would find a way. Lorna was his, and he was not going to lose her.

Ever.

Even now, after the trauma of childbirth, she smelled like fir and lavender, with an undercurrent of something else, something elusive and nameless. He wanted to gather her close and never let her go, to keep her near him always – though that was, he knew, partly because she had just given birth. It would fade to more bearable levels.

He let his fingers hover over her face, which was still a touch too ashy. Even without contact, he could feel the Edain heat of her, burning so bright and so achingly brief. There had to be a way to keep him with her, and he would find it.

Their children would never have to live without a mother, and he need never live without his wife. She was his Lorna, and she would _stay_ his Lorna.

Forever.

He would give her safety, and home, and love, but she could never leave him. For the first time, it occurred to him that he’d better hope she wouldn’t mind.

But for now he watched over her, and brushed her hair, letting it fall heavy and soft through his fingers. They would speak of it later, when she was home.

\--

By the time Bryan and Jennifer reached the village, it was nearly eleven at night. The moon was full, though, and they had flashlights with plenty of good batteries.

They also had a very big ball of twine, though that was pure coincidence – Bryan preferred it to packing tape. They could tie it to a tree at the edge of the forest, and unwind it as they went, so they wouldn’t get lost.

Jennifer, in spite of everything, was excited. With Lord Thranduil safely fifty miles away, they could explore at their leisure, and Bryan’s camera was still in one piece. Even if they didn’t dare post their pictures anywhere – and after a threat like that, _she_ sure as hell wouldn’t – at least they’d have them for themselves.

Odds were good they wouldn’t see anything supernatural, but some shots of the forest itself would be enough for her. They would have significance to her and Bryan, if nothing else.

She bundled up in the warmest clothes she’d brought, putting extra batteries in her pocket, and dumped all their assorted snack food into her purse. This, she thought, was going to be _amazing_. 

Bryan gave her a somewhat shaky grin as he buttoned his black ski jacket. She’d tried to tell him Ireland wasn’t _that_ cold, but now she was glad he hadn’t listened, because they were probably going to be out all night. “Ready to go be Scully?” he asked, picking up his flashlight.

“You bet your ass, Mulder.”

They headed out into the night, into a sleeping village washed in silver. She was reminded strongly of her childhood, when she’d run about pretending to be Scully – but she was an adult, and this was very real. She had no doubt at all that Lord Thranduil’s threat was completely serious – the last thing she wanted was to encourage people to try to visit him, because she didn’t want to be responsible for getting someone killed.

And, with a family to protect (and she _really_ wanted to know the story behind _that_ ) – well, she wouldn’t put it past him to kill anyone or anything he found a threat to them. No, Jennifer couldn’t have _that_ on her conscience.

But really, that was fitting. Even when Mulder and Scully found the truth, they never did get proof.

She and Bryan crossed the fields – carefully, for there were actually patches of ice here and there. She hadn’t seen so many stars since she was a little girl in Montana, though the fog of her breath kept obscuring them. Somehow, the air here felt more alive, and she wondered if there was actually magic in the forest.

It looked so forbidding that she almost didn’t want to go in, but Scully never chickened out. She switched on her flashlight, wishing she’d brought gloves, while Bryan tied an end of the twine to a sturdy branch.

“We’ll only go as far as it lets us,” he said. “God, it’s dark in there.”

And it was, too, even though the trees had shed most of their leaves. Somehow, the moonlight that pierced the bare branches seemed…dimmer…than it was outside.

Because that wasn’t creepy or anything.

Drawing a deep breath, she plunged into the trees, flashlight scanning. Bryan had the camera, so she took the ball of twine, leaving him with both hands free.

Weirdly, it felt warmer in here than it did outside, and it smelled different, too; there was earth and moss and decaying leaves, but there was something else, something spicy that she couldn’t name. She’d certainly never smelled it before.

A little creek gurgled to their right, glittering in the moonlight. In it were a few rocks that looked a hell of a lot like moonstones, and on impulse she knelt to pick one up. The icy water numbed her fingers almost immediately. “Bryan, look at this,” she said, holding it up. Out of the water, it almost seemed to glow. “I’m going to put this on a necklace. A little souvenir.”

He snapped picture of her holding it. “I know we can’t put this on the Internet,” he said, “but I want to tell the group.” They’d made a few friends in San Francisco who were also interested in paranormal things, and they’d eat this up.

“Only if we can make sure they won’t come here themselves,” she said firmly. “I am _not_ going to get anyone killed, even indirectly.”

“You think he’d really do it?”

“I know he would,” Jennifer said grimly. “He’s got half-Elf kids to protect now. I don’t know that there’s anything he _wouldn’t_ do. Lorna might try to stop him, or she might egg him on, too.”

“I _really_ want to know how that happened,” Bryan said, snapping another picture. “I mean, they’re kind of…mismatched.”

Each on their own, yes, they were, but when they were together…Jennifer couldn’t have put words around it, but when they were together, it made a little more sense. Yeah, on the surface they were nothing at all alike, but there was _something_ , something intangible and indefinable. 

As terrifying as Lord Thranduil was, when he was with Lorna, he was – well, almost sweet, in a slightly creepy way. However that happened, he obviously adored her, and she probably adored him, too, when she wasn’t going through labor. Women almost always wanted to murder their husbands or boyfriends when _that_ was going on. She’d even seen a few lesbian couples where the mom wanted to kill their wife or girlfriend for not being the one to carry.

Still, she too wanted to know how it had happened, but she couldn’t think of any way of finding out.

She didn’t get much chance to think on it, though: despite the brand-new batteries, the flashlight flickered and died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Thranduil seems a hell of a lot more possessive than in the other _Ettelëa_ stories…well, he’s been alone for a very, very long time. He’s had a while to get a bit weird. And yes, that’s going to cause some problems once Lorna figures it out, because she’s…Lorna. He’ll learn, once he’s been around other people enough.
> 
> As to Bryan and Jennifer, they’re not bad people – they’re just foolish, and too curious for their own good.
> 
> Title means “Troubles” in Irish. As always, your reviews feed me, and let me know if I’m doing it right.


	6. Stoirmsneachta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the snowstorm of the millennium hits, Thranduil is sweet (and creepy), suspicion arises about the twins, and Lorna steals an ambulance (and knocks out a cop).

Jennifer wished she’d never set foot in Ireland.

All the batteries had proved to be duds, as did their cell phones. Rather than risk getting lost on their way back, twine or no twine, she and Bryan sat and shivered until dawn. She hadn’t thought to bring any toilet paper, so going pee was extra fun, too.

“We’re staying in America next time,” she grumbled, curling into a ball while she shivered. “We can go investigate the Stick Indians or something.”

“At least we have pictures,” Bryan said, wrapping his arms around her. 

“We _hope_ we have pictures. Given the shit with our batteries and phones, maybe your camera got screwed up, too.”

“Don’t say that,” he groaned. “It’s bad enough Lord Thranduil crushed yours. Didn’t you pay four hundred dollars for that thing?”

“Almost five hundred,” she said morosely. “I can’t believe he did that with _one hand_. He must be scary strong.” She didn’t want to think about what he’d do to them, if he caught them in his forest, either. “It’s light enough. Let’s get going.”

\--

After holding the twins as long as they were allowed, Lorna went back to her room and slept like the dead. When she woke the next morning, she was jittery and restless – and very, very hyper.

“Let’s go outside,” she said. “There’s a bit’v garden here somewhere. It’ll be cold as hell and its nothing like home, but at least it’s fresh air. Fresh-ish air, anyway.” Dublin wasn’t known for air pollution – it got too much wind and rain for much to linger – but she could tell the difference between it and the village, and if she could, Thranduil probably _really_ could. 

Thranduil gave her one of his customary smirks. “You will need many blankets,” he said. “Look out the window.”

She had to raise the bed to be able to, and she stared. “Bloody frigging hell,” she breathed.

Her window had a decent enough view – it looked down on a row of shops on the other side of the street, all done up picturesque for upcoming Christmas, though it was near a month away. Everything – shops, cars, street – was covered in snow.

It _never_ snowed in Dublin. Before she and Liam started traveling, she’d only seen snow once in her life, and that had been big, fat flakes that left only the barest trace of a skiff, that had melted inside of an hour. It looked like there was a good two inches down there now, and the sky was covered in heavy, leaden clouds that threatened more. “I bet the entire bloody city’s at a standstill. How the hell do we have _snow_?”

“It is, and I do not know. It has been centuries since I have seen such weather in Eire. Something, somewhere, is changing, and I still do not know what,” he said, sounding a bit irked.

“It snowed once, while Liam and I were in England,” Lorna said, a bit wistfully. “We had a snowball fight. I’d always wanted to, but this just doesn’t _happen_ in Ireland.”

“If your healers will allow it,” Thranduil said, “I will take you to this garden, and you may throw snowballs at things – _carefully._ They will forgive neither you nor I if you aggravate your wound.”

She looked at him. “Would you really?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Of course I would. After what you have endured, you deserve something fun.”

Lorna grinned. “Let’s do this.”

\--

Doctor Colin O’Donnell really didn’t want to let the Donovan woman out into such cold, but her boyfriend was rather…insistent. He’d been rather insistent about several things, and he was so imposing that he always got what he wanted.

Where on _Earth_ had she found him? He was terrifying, stupidly attractive, and he obviously adored her beyond words. Husbands usually stayed in hospital with their wives after birth, but Colin had never seen one this solicitous. It was probably too much to hope he had a gay brother.

He got what he wanted this time, too – they bundled Donovan up in blankets, with a hat and gloves borrowed from Doctor Andrews, who was nearly as small as her. Donovan’s boyfriend – and only now did Colin realize he still didn’t know the man’s name – wheeled her to the elevators.

“I swear she custom-built him,” Nurse Narayanan sighed. “Have you seen him close up? That man’s face is as smooth as a baby’s. I wonder if he’s a Terminator.”

“A _Terminator_?” Colin snorted.

“He almost doesn’t seem human,” she said, a little defensively. “He was watching when I took her vitals last – he’s curious, that one – and those eyes’v his aren’t contacts, any more than hers are. I don’t think his hair’s bleached, either, for all his eyebrows are so dark.”

Colin laughed. “Nurse, how long have you been on-shift?”

“Fourteen hours,” she said, a little ruefully. “I know he’s not a bleedin’ Terminator, but still. He’s…different, if you pay attention.”

“Go home, Nurse,” Colin ordered, shaking his head. Still, he _would_ pay attention, if only to prove her wrong.

\--

Thranduil had never had a great deal of use for most Edain, but one thing he had always appreciated was their ability to feel such _wonder_ at the simplest of things.

It was bitterly cold outside – far too cold for Dublin – but Lorna didn’t seem to care at all. She was nearly childlike in her wonder, leaning over the edge of her chair to scoop up some snow. Her hands were too small to make a very big snowball, but make one she did, and lobbed it at a skeletal tree.

It exploded upon impact, and she laughed. “I’ve never seen the city so _quiet_ ,” she said, her breath rising in a cloud around her.

“Nothing is moving,” he said. “And I do mean nothing. I was watching your television while you slept, and from what I could gather, the entire city is shut down.”

“It would be,” she said, scooping up another handful of snow. “If it’s ever snowed like this in Dublin, nobody recorded it. We’re not like Sweden or Norway – we’ve no idea at all how to deal with it. I doubt the city’s even got a single snowplow.” She paused. “If this lingers, we won’t be getting home any time soon. Even Mairead wouldn’t chance driving in this.”  
“I doubt it will linger a week,” he said. “You will not be going home until then anyway.”

Lorna sighed. “Don’t remind me. I hate hospitals.”

“They do seem designed to make you want to leave as soon as possible,” he said dryly.

“I just want to go _home_. Even if I can barely move with two cribs in my room.”

“You need your own space,” Thranduil said. “I know you are not prepared to live with me, so far from the village, but surely there is somewhere you can live within the village itself. You ought to be closer to the healers’ ward anyway, while the twins are so young.”

He wished she _would_ live with him, not matter how impractical it would be. The deepest, darkest part of his fëa wanted to keep her and the twins entirely to himself, away from the dangers of the outside world – away from other people entirely. Fortunately for everyone, it was a part easily subsumed, but it was nevertheless there, try though he might to stamp it out.

If Lorna truly knew _all_ that lurked in his mind, she would likely flee and never look back, so he had to make sure that she never found out. It wasn’t as though he would ever act on his thoughts, so she need not know about them. Doubtless there were many things she kept from him as well, and he wasn’t about to pry.

Everyone had their secrets. And some of Lorna’s, he was certain, might be near as dark as his. Perhaps she would share them with him one day, but perhaps not. And if it was ‘not’, he had no right to press her about them.

However much he wanted to. However much he wanted to know everything there was to know about her.

\--

Jennifer and Bryan were halfway to the edge of the forest when she smelled it: the distinctive, icy-tin scent of snow.

Snow. In Ireland.

What.

Thank God they were almost out. She was exhausted, and Bryan no less so, but she didn’t want to even take a nap at the B&B – they’d get a motel somewhere else, and crank the heat up as high as it would go.

\--

Colin had all but forgot Nurse Narayanan’s words – until he ran bloodwork on the Donovan twins. When he got the results, he was certain there had to be some mistake.

They’d run bloodwork the day the twins were born, and it hadn’t turned up anything abnormal. It had been very basic, however; this was more comprehensive, checking for a host of potential genetic defects. What it had found – Colin couldn’t call it _defect_ , but it sure as hell wasn’t _normal_. In his five years of practice, he’d never seen anything like it.

He’d run the tests again, just to be sure. It was possible the samples had been contaminated somehow, though he couldn’t imagine what sort of contaminant could have caused _this_.

\--

Lorna could have stayed outside for hours, but Thranduil made her go in when she quit being able to feel her feet. It just figured – a once-in-a-lifetime snowfall, and she was all but bedridden. She hoped Mairead would take pictures of the village, if it actually snowed there, because it would all be melted by the time they got home.

“I need a shower,” she said. “As hot as I can stand it.”

“You have to be careful of your incision,” he warned.

“I know, but my hair feels awful. If I don’t tell the nurses, they can’t tell me not to. It’s always better to get forgiveness than permission.”

Thranduil snorted as he wheeled her into her room. “A strange philosophy.” 

“It’s done me well all my life,” she said, grinning up at him. “Keep an eye out for me, will you?”

He arched an eyebrow. “I can come in with you, if you like.”

“And see my hairy legs and armpits? I don’t’ think so. Next time I drop trou in front’v you, I’d rather not have a row’v staples across my gut.” Which had been seriously creeping her out, because really? _Staples?_ Surely they weren’t meant to go in a human body.

“Very well. But if you fall, I am coming in to get you,” he said.

“I won’t fall,” she said, exasperated. “I don’t know why I’m even in a bloody wheelchair. By now that’s got to be overkill.”

“I think they do not realize you are rather more durable than you look,” Thranduil said dryly. “Go bathe, Firieth Dithen, and I will comb your hair.”

“You still haven’t told me what that means,” she said, hoisting herself to her feet. _That_ hurt, but whatever. Her hair really did feel disgusting.

The ‘shower’ was merely an overhead spigot, and a section of floor with a drain in it. Lorna shed her layers, piling them on the counter, and pulled out the knob, tweaking it until the temperature was right. When she stepped under the spray, the water felt glorious – hot, but not _too_ hot, soaking through her hair. The hospital provided toiletries, but the little bottle of conditioner would only do her one wash. It was still far better than nothing. She’d certainly sleep better once she was clean, even if the nurses were sure to bitch at her.

She couldn’t help a niggling sense of foreboding, even as she scrubbed her hair. Something, somewhere, wasn’t right. Throughout her life, her intuition had rarely let her down, and she had an ominous feeling that shit was about to hit the fan.

 _It’ll be fine_ , she told herself. If something tried to _not_ be fine, she’d hit it until it behaved itself, incision or no incision.

The shower helped, but only to a point. When she’d finished, she dried off and bundled into her layers again, she headed back out to Thranduil – who was speaking to her obstetrician. 

“I fail to see how giving you _my_ blood will accomplish anything,” he said, “as I am neither of the twins.”

Lorna froze. _Christ_ but she hated being right all the time. “He’ll not give it to you,” he said. “He’s a Christian Scientist, they don’t believe in it. Plus, he’s, you know… _English_. They’re all a bit odd.”

“Thank you,” he said blandly.

“Don’t mention it.”

The doctor shook his head. He was maybe ten years older than her, if even that, pale and fair-haired, but with surprisingly dark eyes. “I just need to know if what I found with the twins is an anomaly,” he said, watching Thranduil carefully. “Their DNA is…different. I’d like to run more tests.”

A ball of frozen dread dropped into Lorna’s stomach. “I’ll not authorize a damn thing,” she said. “They’re babies, not lab rats.”

“I’ll give you time to think about it,” he said, and left.

“ _Shit_ ,” she swore. “We’ve got to get them out’v here, Thranduil. Now.” She had a terrible, crystalline fear that they would be told one or both twins had died, so the babies could be taken off somewhere for _more testing_. It was a ridiculous fear – rank paranoia, really – but it didn’t _feel_ ridiculous.

“Lorna, it is freezing outside, and they are but two days old,” he said – but he looked, in his understate way, as unsettled as she felt.

“We haven’t got much choice but to risk it,” she said. “If he’s curious, others will be, too. They can come up with all manner’v excuses to keep us here.” She stalked over to the cupboards, and pulled out her clothes. Her jeans were too big, but they could wrap the twins in her shirts. “I don’t want to know what they’ll do to our children, Thranduil. They’ll find some way to take them from us.” She knew how ridiculous she sounded, but her gut said _go_ , so they were going to go.

“And how are we to get out of the city, in all this snow?” he asked. “Nothing is moving out there for a reason.”

“Leave that to me,” she said. “Can you wrap the twins up in your coat? Christ, I hope they don’t start crying before we’re out.”

“They will not,” he said, and sounded completely certain.

 _Why_ hadn’t she thought of this? Of course their DNA would read weird – they were half Elf. Christ only knew what Thranduil’s looked like.

Well, she thought, as she jammed her left foot in her boot, nobody would be following her out of the city, that was for damn sure. Lorna wasn’t afraid to drive in anything, and she knew how to hotwire a car, provided they could find one old enough to actually be hotwired.

They headed out into the hallway, outwardly calm as you please. She’d learned a long time ago that if you moved like you belonged somewhere, people tended to question it. Granted, Thranduil didn’t look like he belonged _anywhere_ , but the staff were used to him by now.

Getting in to see the twins was mercifully easy, and she looked down at them, a little helplessly. They were so tiny, and so very fragile. _How_ could she risk taking them out of here, into the cold?

But there was that _look_ in the doctor’s eyes – part disbelief, part excitement, and part disturbing curiosity. She didn’t think _he_ meant any harm, but others would, sooner or later. Of that she was certain, unfounded though her certainty was.

Very carefully, she unhooked little Saoirse’s tiny bag of saline. It and the bag connected to the feeding-tube were coming with them. She wrapped the baby in her flannel shirt and handed her to Thranduil, who tucked her into his long black coat. She yawned, and fell asleep again.

Shane barley stirred when she did the same for him, wrapping him in the thermal she’d had on under the flannel. When they got to the village, they’d go straight to the surgery. The snowstorm couldn’t be widespread enough to have got there, too.

Into Thranduil’s coat went Shane as well, and Lorna wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers. Her hair was a tangled, sopping mess, so she wrung it out, twisted it into a long rope, and tied it in a knot at the back of her head. She’d be marginally less noticeable that way.

Drawing a deep breath, she headed back out into the hallway, striding purposefully toward the elevator. Thankfully, the twins were as silent as Thranduil had promised, safe with their father. So far, so good, but her heart thundered, anxiety twisting in her gut.

She did, however, have what she hoped was a good idea. Surely no one would wonder about an ambulance going out into such a storm, and she was pretty sure they left the keys in them. It would have everything they’d need for the twins, too, and she’d driven much bigger vehicles.

(A city bus. While fourteen, and stoned. It was no wonder she’d crashed it into the River Liffey. Seriously, her juvenile offender list was probably as long as she was tall.)

The hospital was busy this time of day, so they had plenty of company in the elevator – but strangely, odd as they were, nobody paid them much mind. They’d be glanced at, and nothing more.

Lorna shot a suspicious glance at Thranduil. He’d said he couldn’t muck about in people’s minds outside his forest – no, actually, no he hadn’t. He’d said he couldn’t _wipe memories_.

They were going to have a little discussion about vital information, and why it should be shared, when they got home.

The parking garage was freezing, and she cast an anxious glance at his coat. His body temperature was so low that she wasn’t sure how much heat they could be getting from him.

 _She_ wasn’t getting heat from _anything_ ; her teeth actually chattered as she led him through the rows of cars, the cold stealing through her clothes with such ease that she might as well not have been wearing any. How the hell could it be this bloody cold in Dublin?

She didn’t know, and she didn’t care, because up ahead were three big, white-and-yellow ambulances. She was honestly a bit shocked no one was watching them – but then, how often did someone actually try to _steal_ one?

Obviously not often, for the door opened, though she had to hoist herself up onto the seat. Pain jagged through her abdomen, though at least it was dulled by the Vicoden still lingering in her system. That was going to make driving an utter _joy_.

Thank God, the key was already in the ignition. She clambered up onto the seat, wincing, and turned on the engine, leaning over to open the other door so Thranduil didn’t have to juggle the twins.

Last time she’d been in an ambulance, it was carrying her away from the wreck that killed Liam, and she shoved the memory away as she tried to adjust the seat. This one smelled rather like that one had – plastic, and sharp disinfectant, with a weird hint of lemon.

 _Not now_ , she told herself. “Seatbelt,” she ordered. “However you can manage, with those two. Are they all right?”

“They are fine,” he said, shutting the door. “They are asleep.” It took some finagling, but he managed the seatbelt eventually.

“I hope they stay that way.” She buckled her own, and then had to hunt for the emergency brake. At least the ambulance was an automatic – with her incision, driving a manual would have been horrible.

She found the brake and the button for the heater at the same time, and hit both, backing carefully out of the slot. The bitter truth was that if she had been driving, Liam might not be dead – while she drove like a maniac, her reflexes couldn’t be beaten by anyone she’d ever met. He’d turned away from the skid, not into it, and over the bridge they’d gone.

That wouldn’t happen this time. She’d get them all home.

The sudden blare of an alarm made her jump, and another lump of frozen dread dropped into her stomach. When last she’d been here, she’d heard two nurses talking about some new lockdown procedure, dreamed up in case of terrorists.

This could not be coincidence.

“Hang onto them,” she said, slapping the ambulance into gear and tearing off through the parking garage, tires squealing.

“Lorna,” Thranduil said, and for the first time, he sounded nervous. If _this_ unsettled him, he was going to have a real problem when they got out onto the road.

“Trust me,” she said, and floored it. The ambulance lurched as she took the corner at thirty, and gunned it to fifty as they headed for what passed for daylight outside. There were metal gates above the entrance, and she meant to be well clear before they went down.

Out they shot, and she pulled a hard right, using the momentum of their skid to propel them forward when she straightened the wheel. She’d heard somewhere that the trick to driving in snow was to use the brake as little as possible, which was just fine with her.

She didn’t stomp the gas – she let the tires find purchase on their own, and sped up gradually, until they were doing a respectable thirty. Anyone who followed – and she was sure someone would, eventually, even if only to retrieve the ambulance – either wouldn’t dare speed, or wouldn’t be able to and stay on the road.

“All right,” she said, forcibly swallowing her panic. “Once we’re out’v the snow, you’ll really see some driving. Twins still okay?”

“They are fine,” he assured her again. “Please do not drive like your sister.”

Lorna snorted. “What, Mairead? She drives like a granny.” Tiny white flakes fluttered down onto the windscreen, and she had to hunt for the switch for the windscreen wipers. Though it was only noon, the clouds were so heavy it looked like evening.

“Remind me never to ride with your grandmother,” he muttered, looking down at the twins. “There will be trouble from this, will there not?”

“Probably,” she said grimly. “If that doctor manages to make anyone believe him, they might try to bring us up on child endangerment charges, for taking the twins home so early. Since they’re out, though, he’s got nothing but his results, and they’ll get laughed off as a hoax.” She cast a brief glance at him, his pale profile. “You really are bloody lucky nobody believes in magic anymore, Thranduil. Skepticism is your friend.”

“ _Our_ friend,” he corrected. “You might be Edain, Firieth Dithen, but you are of my people now, too.”

“ _What_ does that mean?” she asked, coasting to a stop at an empty intersection, unsure why she even bothered.

“‘Tiny woman’,” he said, and she could _hear_ him smirking. “You really are _very_ little.”

“No, you’re just the size’v a tree,” she grumbled. God, but this was almost creepy – the lights were on, but she had never, ever seen the streets of Dublin so empty. “And this weather can’t be natural. Are you _sure_ you’re the only Elf left?”

“Even if I were not, Elves cannot influence the weather. Our magic has always been limited.”

“Someday, when we have time, you’ll have to show me what you can do,” she said, lightly pressing the gas. “And I did _not_ mean for that to sound so dirty.”

Thranduil laughed, rich and deep, and her toes curled. Dammit, now was not the time. She was pretty sure that if he put his mind to it, he could make her come with just his voice.

Something to keep in mind for later.

The snow fell heavier, but at least the button for the headlights was easy to find. She wondered just how widespread this was, and pitied the hell out of everyone who lived here. When all this melted, the streets would be flooded everywhere.

Her ruminations were interrupted by a whirling flash of red and blue lights in the rear-view mirror. _Shit_.

“The fuzz found us,” she muttered. She could barely see the panda car through the snow, but it was there, and she sure as hell couldn’t pretend to be an EMT if they pulled over. But… “Stay quiet, Thranduil. Let me deal with this.”

He eyed her warily, but did as bidden when she eased toward the curb. Strangely, she was temporarily almost serene – she knew what she had to do, and what she was _going_ to do – though she rather pitied the poor cop, who probably didn’t deserve what was about to happen to him.

She saw him approach in the mirror, a bulky silhouette in the glow of his headlights. As soon as he was beside the door, she unlatched it, kicked it open – and slammed him right in the head.

It connected with a solid _thud_ , and he dropped like a shot duck – which was just as well, because the action sent pain flaring through her abdomen in a searing, red-hot wave, even as icy air blasted into the cab.

“ _Cocksucker_ ,” she growled, dragging the door shut, and fought the urge to floor it. Again she had to ease up her speed, but she went at forty now, headed straight for the motorway.

“Was that really necessary?” Thranduil asked, though he sounded more amused than anything else.

“Did you want to try to explain…us?” she asked irritably. “ _I_ didn’t. I don’t know what the hell he’s even doing out in this weather.”

“Who _was_ he?”

She had no idea how to explain a cop to someone whose only knowledge of law enforcement came from watching _The X-Files_. “Someone who could have caused us a load’v problems,” she said. "Fuck traffic signals – I’m not stopping again until we’re home. Once he wakes up, he’ll call for reinforcements.”

They barreled on into the storm, and she hoped like hell no one would follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil is getting all kinds of education in the outside world, isn’t he? 
> 
> Colin _means_ well, but Lorna’s right: somewhere up the food chain, he’ll find people that won’t, and she’s genre savvy enough to know where _that_ would head.
> 
> Title means “snowstorm” in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with light and hope.


	7. Abhaile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna and Thranduil make it home (and Mairead chews them both out), Doc Barry and Big Jamie are suspicious (and rightly so), Thranduil reaches a decision (and surprises everyone), and Colin continues to sow trouble (with the best of intentions.)

Bridie had a terrible sense of foreboding – and it had nothing to do with the pair of eejits that came staggering out of Lord Thranduil’s wood, staring dazedly at the falling snow.

 _Snow_. In her ninety-three years of life, she’d only seen snow a handful of times, and even then it was usually mixed with sleet. This, though – this was tiny flakes, and it was actually dusting the fields. She stood at her kitchen window and watched, wrapped in the warmth of the cottage.

First the rainstorm, now this. Bridie wasn’t what that American pair would call psychic, but she _was_ very old, and her intuition had honed itself to razor-sharpness. Something was afoot – something unnatural.

Well, not _unnatural_. Her great-grandchildren had made her watch that American program, _The X-Files_ , and while she thought much of it was hogwash, some of it had struck unnervingly close to home. The woman, Scully, had said something that still stuck with Bridie: ‘Nothing happens in contradiction to nature – only to what we know of it.’ And whatever was causing this, she didn’t know of.

She’d ask Lord Thranduil, whenever he returned. If anyone would have any idea, it was him.

The Americans were still staggering, so she opened her door, leaned out, and hollered, “Get in here, the pair’v you, before you freeze solid!”

They hurried toward the cottage, slipping and sliding over the brown, frozen grass. Both were pale as the falling snow, and the poor girl’s lips were blue. They looked utterly miserable, and Bridie shook her head. _Young people_.

“Ignore the smell,” she said, shutting the door behind them. God but it was cold out there. “I’ve got something I can’t exactly air out outside.” She’d got used to the stink of the camphor, but _they_ wouldn’t be.

“Thank you so much,” the girl said, her teeth chattering.

“So you’ve gone into Lord Thranduil’s woods,” Bridie said, filling the kettle and putting it on the stove. “It’s luck you are he’s away. He doesn’t take kindly to trespassers, unless they’re my granddaughter. Then he takes to them _too_ kindly,” she muttered.

“That’s why we went in,” the boy admitted. “We knew he was in Dublin.”

Bridie snorted. “D’you think he won’t know you were there anyway? If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll get out’v Ireland. He’ll do what he thinks it’ll take to protect his home. It’s not stood untouched for so long without reason.”

The girl, still shivering, sat in one of the kitchen chairs. Her brown hair hung in damp straggles over her forehead, but at least her lips were no longer blue. “You’ve all known he was here?”

“Aye. Everyone knows’v Lord Thranduil, but _we’re_ smart enough to leave him alone,” Bridie said, digging a loaf of bread out of the cupboard. It was a day old, but it would do. “Lorna, she wasn’t born here. It’s fortunate he took a fancy to her, or she might’ve disappeared. Most who go into that wood don’t come out, and those that do are cracked in the head when he’s done with them.”

“Why _her_ , out of everyone?” the boy asked. The melting snow on his hair had turned it into a stringy mess, too.

“I asked her that,” Bridie said, setting out the bread and a long knife. “Her answer made a lot’v sense. Most that go into that forest are looking to take something,” she added pointedly, and they both winced. “She wanted proof that he _didn’t_ exist, and when she found him, she sang him a song. She’d offered to, y’see, when first she stood at the edge of his forest, and she said he told her it was the only time in his entire life anyone had offered him something for nothing.

“You two wanted to _take_. You want to expose him, to expose his home. And if you do, he’ll hunt you to the ends’v the Earth.”

“We weren’t going to,” the girl said, peeling off her coat. “I mean, yeah, that was the original idea, but now we just wanted something for ourselves. Souvenirs. He – he pointed out some things, when we saw him at the hospital. We don’t want to make his life suck – and not just because he said he’d kill us both if we tried.”

“Be certain you don’t,” Bridie said firmly, bringing out butter and her own home-made strawberry jam. “Did you take anything but pictures?”

“I grabbed a stone out of the creek,” the girl admitted.

“You toss it back, as soon as you can,” Bridie ordered. “Don’t have to be in the creek – just back in the forest. He’ll not stand for you taking even that.”

“You know,” the boy said, “we’ve been hunting for paranormal things since we were in high school. Now I wish we hadn’t found one.”

“You should be always be careful what you wish for,” Bridie said, not unkindly. “Careful what you wish, careful what you say. Careful what you wish – you may regret it. Careful what you wish – you just might get it.”

The girl blinked. “Metallica?” she asked, incredulously.

“Meeting Lorna has been an education,” Bridie said blandly. “I might not like the sound’v them, but they’ve a way with words. I’ll fix you some tea and sandwiches, and once this storm lets up, you go put that stone back and get out’v here.”

\--

Lorna could hardly _believe_ this.

The shoulders of the M-7 were littered with cars, and lined with people who had their mobiles glued to their ears. Who was going to rescue them, she didn’t know; she couldn’t have fit them all in the ambulance, even if it had been safe to stop.

She didn’t dare stop, for she was certain that if she did, she’d never get started again. The key to driving in snow was not to panic, but if she got stuck, she’d panic like buggery. If she kept going at forty, and eased on the brake without pressing it down entirely, she could keep forward momentum and not skid on the curves.

It had worked for the last twenty miles, and she hoped it kept working the next thirty, because the storm was just as bad here as it was in Dublin. And she was beginning to fear it would stay that way all the way to the village.

“This is mad,” she said, wiping her damp palms on her trousers. She’d turned the heat up, both to de-fog the windscreen and keep the twins warm, but it wasn’t the only reason she was sweating. “Thranduil, what do we do if that doctor manages to convince anyone he’s not touched in the head, and someone comes after us?”

“We lure them into my forest,” he said serenely, his rich voice soothing as a warm blanket, “and I make them forget. Or drive them truly mad, so that none will believe them ever again.”

Lorna wanted to say that was wrong, but she couldn’t. She’d done worse in defense of those she’d considered her family.

“Our kids’re going to have a hell’v a time’v it, when they grow up,” she sighed, twisting the button to speed up the windscreen wipers. The snow was so fast and so heavy that it was trying to plaster the outside of the windscreen, only half-melting when it made contact with the warm glass. The effect was a bit like the Gaussian blur filter on Mairead’s Photoshop – pretty, but no fun at all to drive in. “If they’ve got your ears, traveling’ll not be easy. Thank Christ we hadn’t named them yet. We’ll have to give them some other surname than Donovan, just to be safe. Have you got a last name?”

“Oropherion,” he said. “It means ‘child of Oropher’. Ours would be Thranduilion, which, given that legends of me have somehow left the village, will not help.”

She snorted. “No, no it won’t. Mam’s maiden name was Monaghan – they can have that. Saoirse and Shane Monaghan. We can register their middle names later, though that’ll seem a bit odd, adding to it so long after the fact.” 

“At least we will not be Eöl,” Thranduil said, shifting the twins in his arms. Lorna dared risk a brief glance at him, and found his hair had formed a pale curtain around them, shining in the glow of the interior lights. “He did not give his son a name until the boy was twelve.”

“ _Twelve?_ ” she said. “Why?”

“Eöl was…strange. In the end, he turned out to be quite evil, and his son was no better. He married his wife under…questionable circumstances, and not for the reason Eldar customarily marry.”

“Questionable?” Lorna asked, not liking the sound of that at all.

“He ensnared her through sorcery while she was lost in his forest, and would not allow her to leave. He could not have wed her by force, but consent does not equal desire,” Thranduil said.

She shivered. That was a woman’s worst nightmare. Hell, that was _anyone’s_ worst nightmare. “How can you know it wasn’t by force?”

“Because Eldar, if violated in that manner, die. Our fëa, our souls, are not tethered to our physical form as strongly as yours. There are several forms of torture that can sever them.”

“That,” she said, “is seriously fucked-up.” Elves were supposed to be immortal, and yet they could die from torture a human would survive? No wonder Thranduil was the only one left.

\--

Thranduil was worried.

Something was stirring, something unseen and barely perceptible, and it was not something small.

Even before the Obliteration, there had been precious few beings who could influence the weather, and none on this scale. While there _were_ still traces of magic in this world, there wasn’t nearly enough to create _this_. This was something new – and he did not at all like the fact that it coincided with the first trip he’d taken from his land in seven hundred years. With the birth of his children.

He looked down at them, still safe and sleeping. Peredhel though they were, physically they took mostly after their mother; they would be more durable than the average Edain, but not as much so as an Elf. If danger was coming, even as adults they would be at a disadvantage compared to him – unless they chose immortality.

And Lorna…there would be no keeping her in a safe place, not if he did not stay as well. She was twenty pounds of stubborn in a ten-pound sack, as the Edain would say. He had a feeling you could cut both her legs off and she’d still drag herself after you so she could rip your throat out.

Her expression was certainly determined now, though her knuckles were white as she gripped the wheel. Thranduil was quite certain she would hit him if he told her she was adorable, so he wisely kept silent.

His eyes drifted down her form, and he went very still. Pointing it out would only make her panic, so he said nothing, but fear lurched heavy in his heart.

There were rusty-red splotches on the front of her hospital smock. They were small, but they were not light. She must have done something to her incision when she hit the man with the door, and now it was bleeding. Not much, it would seem, but _any_ was too much. She shouldn’t be driving – she shouldn’t be _moving_ – but, though he had a good idea of how to operate a car, he didn’t trust his ability to do so. Not in snow. Lorna had some manner of feel for the pedals that he was sure he would not possess.

So he kept silent, but his tension woke little Saoirse, who started crying. Such a high, tiny cry – nothing like Legolas as a baby.

“Someone’s not enjoying this,” Lorna said, fiddling with some button on the console. “It’s all right, little one. We’ll have you safe and comfy soon.”

Quiet sound emerged from somewhere – a chatter of voices, all talking at cross-purposes. Lorna pressed a few more buttons, seemingly at random, cursing under her breath.

“It’s the storm’v the century, mates, and what a storm it is,” a man said. He sounded gleeful as a child. “It’s moving fast up the whole east coast, burying everything as it goes, so stay off the main roads and stay safe. Don’t worry – the English’ll get it soon enough.”

Lorna snorted, and Thranduil wondered why there was such animosity between the two nations.

“The M-7’s closed near the Kildare exist, so if you’re on either side, I’m afraid you’re stuck. If anyone’s got a snowplow in their garden shed, now’s the time to dig it out.”

“They’ll bloody let us through,” she muttered. “I don’t care who I’ve got to run over.”

If he didn’t know any better, he would say part of her was _enjoying_ this, in spite of their rather dire circumstances. There was a certain light in her green eyes, something that bordered on unholy, and he wondered if she _hoped_ there would be something for her to run over. He wouldn’t be surprised.

The sky darkened by the moment, and the snowflakes danced in the light of the ambulance’s front lanterns. Indeed it was so heavy that Thranduil wondered how she could see through it – and decided that she probably couldn’t.

Naturally, this did nothing at all for his nerves.

\--

Big Jamie stood at the pub’s front window, watching the snow fall.

His children – and all the others in the village – were out playing in it, lobbing snowballs without a care in the world, but he was worried.

Nobody could call him an imaginative man, but he paid a great deal more attention than most would think. His da had always told him that Lord Thranduil couldn’t control the weather, but Jamie wondered if he could _influence_ it, consciously or not.

Not many had paused to wonder just what powers the Elf might have. He and the village had left one another alone for centuries – he might walk about at night, but that was it. He had been alone for a very, very long time, and probably emotionally…static. Now, however, he was _not_ alone – it was obvious to anyone with eyes that he adored Lorna, and now they had two tiny babies, whose birth would have been more traumatic to him that most, since he didn’t understand modern medicine. Just what could that emotional turbulence do?

Although speaking of emotional disturbance, Lord Thranduil’s obvious adoration was a bit…worrisome. Lorna was a good woman, and he knew her well enough by now, but it had been like this from the first. He’d been so totally isolated for so long that it wasn’t exactly _surprising_ , but the way he looked at her when she wasn’t looking at him sometimes bordered on obsessive.

But then, he wasn’t human. Reading his emotional cues as if he were likely wasn’t accurate. But Jamie had spent twenty years reading people – in his line of work, he _had_ to – and some of what he saw unsettled him.

Oh well. Lorna seemed fond enough of Lord Thranduil in return, and now that they had kids together, that would surely deepen.

Trouble was, she was mortal. Someday she would die, and while Jamie himself would likely be long in the ground by then, his own children would have to deal with the emotional fallout from Lord Thranduil’s grief. And _that_ would be a problem.

But it wasn’t one yet. The power flickering and dying, however, was.

Bloody hell.

\--

Mairead and her eldest, Shannon, were in the surgery when the power cut. Shannon had slipped throwing snowballs and broken her left arm, which had just been set when the lights went out.

Fortunately, the surgery was one of only two places in the village with an emergency generator, so they kicked on again almost immediately, but still. In spite of her Irish name, Doc Barry was Indian, and she muttered something in Hindi that Mairead was sure was a curse.

“I am going to hit Lord Thranduil,” she said irritably. “If this is not his fault, I am a fish.”

“You think so?” Shannon asked She was woozy with painkillers, her red hair went from melting snow.

“He falls in love with your aunt and the weather goes to hell,” the doctor said. “I do not think this is a coincidence.”

Mairead didn’t, either, and it was a relief to know she wasn’t the only one. Wretched man – Elf. Who fell in love thanks to a _song_? No sensible person. Terrifying as he was, in that moment she could strangle him.

She didn’t have long to think about it. There came a faint skid of tires and a very large crash, and even Shannon jumped.

“I’ll go check,” Mairead sighed. She had no idea who would be mad enough to be out in such weather, but if they hadn’t just wrecked their car, she’d be very surprised.

What she found sent dread spiking through her. An ambulance had crashed into a power pole, shattering one headlight. Out of it struggled Lorna, without so much as a coat, the front of her hospital gown dotted with rusty patches.

“What in God’s bloody name d’you think you’re doing?!” Mairead shouted, heading out the door and hustling her inside. Lord Thranduil exited the passenger side, far more smoothly, for all he had something in his arms under his coat.

“Someone figured out the twins aren’t human,” Lorna said, shivering visibly. “What the fuck else was I supposed to do?”

“You’ve not gone and brought them _with_ you?” Mairead asked, panic twisting in her gut.

“No, I left them behind to get bloody dissected,” Lorna said witheringly. “We stole that thing and came home. They’ve got their saline and food and that.”

Mairead groaned, even as Nuala came running. She looked every bit as appalled as Mairead felt, her face pale in the muted light.

“Come on, Lord Thranduil,” she ordered. “Let’s get them set up, if we even can. We’re running on the generator as it is.”

“Lorna, come see Doc Barry,” Mairead added, grabbing her sister’s arm. “And don’t look down.”

Of course, that was the first thing Lorna did. “Oh, bloody hell,” she groaned. “This is _just_ what I need.”

“You’re a bloody idiot, Lorna,” Mairead said, hustling her down the dim hallway. “As if anyone’d believe the twins aren’t human.”

“My obstetrician did,” she grumbled. “I had to get them out, before he convinced someone else. Christ, Mairead, he wanted a blood sample from Thranduil. _Thranduil_ , not me. You’ll forgive me if that raised a few red flags.”

Angry as she was, Mairead had to concede she had a point. Natural human skepticism would have been the only thing keeping someone from realizing he wasn’t human, since it really was rather obvious, even without his ears. Not many believed in magic or Elves or anything anymore, so most would dismiss his air of _alien_ as him just being weird. But anyone who wasn’t a die-hard skeptic would pick up on it sooner or later.

Damn it all, _why_ did he have to go and knock Lorna up? Clearly he had not thought this through. If he’d been human, Mairead would think he’d just wanted in her knickers – and even though he wasn’t, she half thought that anyway. _Men_. They really were all the same, even when they were Elves.

“Shannon, allanah, your cast’ll have to wait a bit,” she said, shooing Lorna into the room. “Your aunt was an idiot, and now her incision’s bleeding.”

“Thanks,” Lorna said blandly.

“I only speak the truth,” she said grimly. “Necessary or not, you still shouldn’t have been driving yet.”

“What was I supposed to do?” she demanded, while Shannon slid drunkenly off the table, her arm immobilized in a splint. “Let _Thranduil_ drive?”

All right, she had another point, but _still_. Mairead helped Lorna onto the exam table, biting back a few choice curses.

When Doc Barry hiked up Lorna’s hospital gown, she let them all fly, which of course made Shannon giggle. Lorna’s incision was… _oozing_. She’d actually popped a few of her staples out.

“Lorna, what in God’s bloody name did you do?” Mairead asked. “You can’t’ve done that just driving.”

Her expression went shifty. “I might or might not’ve knocked out a cop.”

Shannon burst out laughing, and Mairead covered her face with her hands. She had to remind herself that Lorna’s upbringing had been very, very different from her own. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Thank God nobody can come looking for you yet.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to hide the ambulance, sooner or later,” Lorna sighed.

“You are all ridiculous,” Doc Barry said. “Lie back, Lorna. This will need stitches, and then you must move as little as possible for the next few days.”

“Great,” she sighed morosely. “Doc, how long will your generator last?”

“Twenty-four hours, but I am sure they will have the power back before then,” the doctor said, filling a needle with morphine.

Lorna frowned. “If this keeps up, I wouldn’t count on it,” she said. “It’s dumping outside, and the roads’re a skating-rink. Mairead, how much firewood have you got? We need to keep the twins warm.”

Mairead’s heart sank. “Not much,” she said. “It’s not just the twins we’ve got to worry about, either. Big Jamie’s got a fireplace, but we can’t cram the whole village in there. And Christ, what if the pipes freeze? What’ll we do?” Never in all her life had she known winter to get this cold. This was Norway weather, and utilities simply weren’t rated for it.

“You will come with me.”

Lord Thranduil had appeared in the doorway, completely silently. He looked at Lorna’s abdomen with open worry.

“What, _all’v_ us?” Mairead asked. “The whole bloody village?”

He smirked. “Mistress Mairead, my caverns were once home to far more people than your village possesses. I cannot _feed_ you all for any length of time, but there is much you might bring with you, and ride out this storm in safety. And if anyone _does_ seek Lorna and I, they will have themselves a pretty mystery when they find the village empty.”

Lorna grinned. “That’s evil,” she said. “I like it. Now come here and give me a kiss before I get a load’v thread in my gut.”

Lord Thranduil arched an eyebrow. “Lorna, you really are terribly romantic,” he said dryly, but cross the little room and kiss her he did, ignoring Shannon’s gagging sounds.

“If you are quite finished,” Doc Barry said pointedly. “Lorna, I am going to inject this morphine. Hold still.”

\--

Thranduil never would have thought he would make such an offer, but he had little choice. Edain could not sense the weather as he did; this was not going to go away soon enough for the village. He could hardly leave them to freeze.

And…well, the sight of Lorna’s wonder at snow had stirred something. Most Edain seemed like children to him – they would certainly marvel at his home. Lorna was right; it was too beautiful to be so empty, and while he would not want them all there on a permanent basis, perhaps having houseguests for a few days would be…nice.

And Lorna would love him for it. It had been a very long time since he’d had to take anyone else’s feelings into account, but he would rather she be happy. And the happier she was, the sooner she might truly love him. Thranduil was not above benign manipulation, though he would not outright lie to her.

He held her hand while the healer cleaned and stitched her incision, her small fingers still warmer than his in spite of their chill. They never did get a chance to brush her hair, which was still damp, and still tied in a knot. He rather wished at least one of the twins would have her hair, for it was so very back, threaded with pure silver.

“This,” she said, looking up at him, “will be bloody amazing. Seriously, you lot can’t _imagine_ what his home’s like. I’ve not seen anything like it, even in pictures. It’ll be like a giant slumber party. Hey,” she added, “hey, I’m not up the yard anymore. I can try your wine. And not, you know, secondhand.”

Mairead’s daughter gagged, and Mairead herself looked a bit disturbed. “Lorna,” she said, pained, “you are my baby sister, and I really don’t need to hear things like that.”

Lorna snorted. “Mairead, I’m twenty-nine bloody years old,” she said. “You can’t exactly call me a baby.”

Thranduil shut his eyes. “Please do not remind me, Lorna. I realize that you are well into adulthood for an Edain, but a twenty-nine-year-old Eldar would be roughly equivalent in age to your sister’s daughter. We do not reach full maturity until we are fifty. I try not to think about how old any of you are. Or rather, how old you are not.”

It truly did disturb him, too, but such was life when dealing with mortals. He knew that he must seem beyond ancient to them – they thought in terms of decades, not millennia.

“Well, you will all have to stay here tonight,” the healer said. “Mairead, if you would like you can call Big Jamie – he will call everyone else. If we are to go anywhere, we should do it in the morning. Otherwise the fields may be impossible.”

“I always forget you people cannot walk on snow,” Thranduil sighed.

“Wait, what?” Mairead’s daughter asked. “You can walk _on_ snow? _How?_ You’re like, giant-sized.”

Lorna burst out laughing. “She has a point.”

“All Eldar walk on snow,” he said. “I cannot understand how you people can’t. I suppose you will see a demonstration tomorrow.”

\--

Colin stared at the Donovan twins’ blood tests, borderline morose.

All he’d wanted was a few more, and one from the father. The fact that they’d run off into the storm – and stolen an ambulance, to boot – made him wonder if there was something to Nurse Narayanan’s speculations after all.

He drained the bitter dregs of his coffee, and went to pour another cup. Of course, the thought was ridiculous – and yet, they’d run away. At the first hint of suspicion, they’d taken their children and fled.

Stealing an _ambulance_ had been a stroke of genius, but where would they go, in such weather? They’d more than likely wreck before they made it out of the city, yet there had been no reports of a crashed ambulance.

Colin returned to his papers, inhaling the scent of coffee. He wanted to show this to someone, but who would believe him? Even he thought it sounded insane, and he was the one with suspicions.

He sipped his coffee. It was too bitter; it had been sitting in the pot for too long. He’d show them to Nurse Narayanan, when he saw her next. And then, whenever the blasted weather cleared, maybe he’d take a daytrip to Lasgaelen. Maybe the nurse might want to go with him.

Just out of curiosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the name of the village is deliberate, albeit Gaelicized. And yes, Colin is going to get a very nasty shock when he finally gets out there. Meanwhile, Thranduil’s home will actually have people again, for a while.
> 
> What is the Obliteration, you ask? You will find out in due course.
> 
> Title means “Homecoming” in Irish. As always, reviews keep me going, and let me know where I should be going.


	8. Lá ag Gluaiseacht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the village heads to Thranduil’s halls (and are suitably impressed), and Thranduil is quite amused.

Doc Barry had brought a cot into the little room that housed the twins, along with a space-heater to sit in between their cribs. They were wrapped in every spare blanket and towel the surgery had, tiny little bundles with their IV and food lines suspended on poles.

Lorna looked down at them, a bit helplessly. Oh, they _seemed_ fine, but how the hell would she know? All she knew about babies was what she’d read in books.

“Their fëa are strong, Lorna,” Thranduil said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “They are resting, and you must, too. Otherwise I think your healer may skin us both.”

She laughed. “You might be right there,” she said. “I’m afraid to sleep, though. I’m afraid something will happen.”

“I will stay awake, Firieth Dithen,” he promised, leading her to the cot. The mattress was about as thick as an old sock, but it would do. “I will wake you, should anything change.” He wrapped his coat around her – it was heavier than it looked, and it smelled of him, rich and spicy and a little dizzying.

“Has anybody ever told you that you smell really good?” she asked, curling up on the cot. Though her incision remained numb from the morphine, it felt alien, and not in a good way. Now that her adrenaline was crashing, though, she was too tired to care.

“I believe it is a first,” he said dryly. “Sleep, Firieth Dithen. We will still be here when you wake.”

\--

Lorna woke the next morning to a bladder that felt like it was going to explode.

Her feet were numb, her legs so stiff she nearly fell when she got off the cot, and her incision hurt like a mad bastard.

Fuck everything.

Thranduil, true to his word, was awake – he sat on a stool, watching the twins. She limped over as well, clutching her abdomen.

The babies looked as peaceful as ever – Shane was asleep, while Saoirse looked up at her. The kid really _did_ have her eyes – green so vivid her da had called them demon eyes.

“Hello there,” Lorna said, reaching down to stroke her daughter’s fuzzy head. “See, that trip wasn’t so bad, was it? Mammy’s about to piss herself, but when she’s back from the toilet, she’ll say a proper good-morning.”

Thranduil snorted, and she gave him a half-grin as she headed out into the short hallway. Even through her socks, the tile floor was freezing; Doc Barry must have turned down the heat in most of the surgery, to save fuel for the generator. It meant Lorna’s arse would probably freeze to the toilet-seat, too. Dammit.

She had to pass the waiting-room to get to the toilet, and when she looked out the window, she froze.

“Bloody fucking _hell_ ,” she breathed.

The snow was level with the bottom of the window – a good three feet off the ground, and unbelievably, it was _still falling_. Getting anywhere would be a nightmare, let alone out to the forest. How the hell were they to do it at all?

It was a question that would have to wait until she’d hit the toilet, so hit it she did – and the seat was as cold as she’d expected. Because that was a great way to start the morning.

She hurried back to Thranduil, shivering. “Thranduil, we’ve a bit’v a problem,” she said. “Go look out the front window.”

“I know,” he said. “I have, and I have been thinking. If Big Jamie and some of the larger men break a trail, the others can follow them, more or less easily. I will carry you and the twins.”

“I keep forgetting you’re actually strong enough to do that,” she said. He’d neither slept nor showered in four days, but you’d never know it – his silvery hair was still sleek and not remotely greasy, with nary a shadow or under-eye bag to be seen. It wasn’t fair, and she also kind of wanted to lick him. She’d blame _that_ on hormones.

She wasn’t ready to tell him this yet, but that strength was actually a bit of a turn-on. Lorna, for all she was so small, seemed to have a higher muscle density than most people, which made her somewhat difficult to overpower – Shane had, but he was also a foot taller and outweighed her by almost a hundred pounds. He’d taught her all her extremely dishonorable self-defense techniques, for when she ran up against people like him.

None of that, she was sure, would work against Thranduil, which was something she _ought_ to find terrifying. He could probably break her neck with one hand, but she trusted that he wouldn’t, and _that_ , really, was what turned her on. She did trust him, for all she was certain he was capable of terrible things. He was so old he had to have, at some point or another.

“You look very thoughtful,” he said, tilting his head to one side as he regarded her.

“Someday I’ll tell you why,” she said. “Meanwhile, we’ve got to pack whatever it is we’ll need for the twins, and probably head over to the pub. Everybody’ll meet there, I’m sure.” She wasn’t at all looking forward to going out into the cold, no matter how beautiful the snow was. Even the thought made her shiver.

Thranduil gave her a smirk. “May I kiss you, Lorna?” he asked. “It would warm you up.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You gonna be able to handle having wood before we get to your wood?”

“I think I will live,” he said dryly.

Lorna couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay,” she said. “Impress me.”

He picked her up and stood her on the cot – he had to, if he wanted to avoid giving her a crick in the neck, and kissed her. It was soft at first – testing the waters, perhaps – waiting for her to part her lips when she was ready. Unlike hers, his were so very soft, and her tongue darted out to give his upper lip a playful lick.

She felt him laugh, and he deepened the kiss, wrapping his arms around her as he explored her mouth, slow and languorous. Somehow, even after three days in the hospital, he still tasted faintly of wine, a sweetness that offset the rich, spicy _Thranduil_ taste of him. She felt like she could do this for hours, without needing anything more.

Unfortunately, the door opened. “Doc Barry says – oh, for Christ’s _sake_.”

Lorna burst out laughing, and looked at her sister. Poor Mairead looked a bit green. “You’ve got terrible bloody timing,” she grumbled.

Her sister’s eyes narrowed. “You do know that you can’t do… _that_ right now, don’t you?” she asked sternly. 

Lorna rolled her eyes. “I’m not _completely_ thick,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t kiss.”

Mairead shook her head, grumbling something about perverted Elves. “Save it until we’ve got where we’re going,” she said, “and pack the twins up. We’re headed to the pub.” She stalked away, muttering to herself, and Lorna laughed again.

“Bit’v a prude, that one. She won’t be happy until we’re decently married.”

Thranduil touched her chin, drawing her to look at him. “Well, my goal _is_ to convince you to want to,” he said, stroking his thumb along her jaw.

“Are you gonna – y’know, be pissed, if it take me a while to decide?” she asked, a little hesitantly. 

He smirked, and kissed her forehead. “I am immortal, Firieth Dithen,” he said. “If I am good at anything, it is patience. I do not want you to rush into something you later regret. It has been less than a year since you lost your husband. To me, you are my wife, but I would not wish you to think of me as your husband until you are ready.”

She probably ought to be annoyed at his presumption, but she would, sooner or later, and they both knew it. “You won’t get peeved that I’ll not shag you until then? Because, um, I won’t.”

“Lorna, if all I wanted was a bed companion, I could have chosen from the village centuries, ago,” he said, smoothing his thumb over the sharp angle of her cheekbone. “Eldar do not work that way. Yes, I would still like to sleep with you, but only in the most literal sense. In this, Eldar are not as Edain – we crave contact with our spouse, but that does not mean it must be carnal. Your people are driven by nature to reproduce, for your lives are so brief, and historically you have died so very easily. Mine live forever – even Eldar who have children rarely have more than one, or the world would have been overrun with us. For the most part, we feel desire only when we want to.”

“If humans could do that, the world would be a better place,” she observed. The more she heard about Elves, the more she realized just how alien they were. “But we’d best get the twins packed up, or Mairead’ll kill us.”

“I am beginning to believe she could,” he said dryly. “In another era, she would have made a good warrior-chieftan.”

Lorna laughed. She could picture that all too clearly.

\--

Even as Big Jamie packed up all he could carry from the pub’s freezer, he wondered what to make of Mairead’s news.

The prohibition against entering Lord Thranduil’s forest had been drummed into his head for as long as he could remember – and unlike some, he’d never been tempted to disobey it. His every instinct still screamed that it was wrong, no matter that they’d been invited.

But a glance out the window told him he’d be mad to stay here. It was _still_ snowing, the flakes tiny, but so heavy he could barely see across the street. The light was odd, too – too bright for the darkness of the sky.

He’d had the fireplace roaring all night, using every stick he had, but it was still cold near the window. The plain truth was that anyone who stayed another night would freeze to death. His thermometer read fifteen below zero – ten degrees colder than when he’d woken. He could see his breath, even in his back room.

“Da, are we _really_ going to Lord Thranduil’s forest?” Ronan, his eldest, asked. He was a bright-eyed boy of ten, with his mother’s dark hair and his father’s freckles. He’d been out playing in the snow, leaving his coat dusted white and his face red from the cold.

“We are,” Jamie said, and tried not to sound as grim as he felt. “You’re to be on your best behavior, you hear me? And keep your eye on Aislinn – I don’t want her wandering off.”

Ronan groaned. Aislinn was Jamie’s youngest; she’d just turned four, and had two modes: zoom and sleep. Sometimes Jamie got tired just watching her.

At least it was just her. Lorna and Lord Thranduil would have their hands full, once those twins learned to walk. He’d have to tell them about child leashes.

“I mean it,” he said. “We’re guests in Lord Thranduil’s home. You’ll go where he says you can go, and nowhere else.”

“Okay,” Ronan sighed, so heavily that Jamie had to laugh.

The bell over the door jangled as it opened, and admitted the Elf himself, carrying Lorna, who was wrapped up in his long black coat. He was followed by Mairead and Shannon, whose left arm was encased in a lime-green cast, and Doc Barry, who scowled.

“There is no snow in Ireland, John says,” she grumbled, dusting off her black hair.

“He’s usually right,” Jamie said. “Lorna, did you _really_ steal a bloody ambulance?”

“I had reasons,” she said darkly. “Thranduil, you can put us down now.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, “I do not think so.”

Jamie couldn’t believe they’d dragged those twins out of the hospital and into the cold. They must have had damn _good_ reasons, for they were neither of them daft. _Weird_ , especially Lord Thranduil, but not daft.

Siobhan, in a bright red coat and matching stocking cap, hurried in, and immediately almost pounced on Lorna. Jamie had no idea why, but she genuinely didn’t seem unsettled by Lord Thranduil at all – which at the moment seemed to bemuse him.

“Christ but they’re tiny. How will you keep them warm all that way?”

“I have ways, Mistress Siobhan. What is in that bag?” he asked, nodding at the grey canvas sack in her black-gloved hand.

“All the food I had in the house. I put the perishables outside last night, so they’ll still be good, even if the milk’s frozen solid.”

Bit by bit, more people trickled in – Dain and his parents, Mick and Alec, Nuala (who had cut a hole in a green duvet, and was wearing it like a poncho), Michael the bartender and John, who was Doc Barry’s husband. Old Orla came with her son, Big Michael, who had his wife Carmel and their two daughters – on and on it went, the room crowding until there was some actual warmth to it.

Jamie’s wife, young Orla, came out of the back room with little Aislinn in her arms, her normally pale face even paler. “I put batteries in that radio in the back,” she said. “It said this weather front’s stalled over us. They don’t know when it’ll warm up.”

 _That_ he did not need to hear. “Bloody brilliant,” he sighed. At least they could raid the Market if they had to, though Molly would be none too pleased to have her stock dwindle.

“You all know where the forest is,” Lord Thranduil said, a little dryly. “We had best go.”

A faint shiver went through the crowd. Jamie wasn’t the only one who’d been told firmly never to go into that forest – all of them had, from childhood on up. It was just something you didn’t do, if you have anything at all between your ears. This went against a lifetime of training.

But go they did, plunging out into the storm, with Lorna carefully sheltering the twins in her borrowed coat.

The cold nearly stole Jamie’s breath, creeping through all his layers. The only thing that would warm him up was movement.

Ronan didn’t seem to have any problem – he threw himself into the snow with abandon, his sister Mary behind him, cheerfully flailing. To _them_ this was something amazing, not something to worry about. 

“Okay hold on,” Shannon said, nearly whacking her mother with her cast. “ _How_ can you do that?”

Lord bloody Thranduil, it seemed, didn’t have to worry about struggling through the snow. Even with his armful of Lorna, he wasn’t standing _in_ the snow, but _on_ it.

“That,” Siobhan muttered, “is not fair.”

“I do not know how you _can’t_ do it,” he said, with a faint smirk. “Follow me.”

Follow they did, with Jamie, Mick, and Alec breaking a pack for the others. The snowflakes stung where they landed on Jamie’s face, melting nearly immediately, and he kept having to wipe them out of his eyes.

The village looked alien, buried in so much white – it was as though they’d all been transported to the moon. While it was never precisely noisy to begin with, now it was eerily silent – even their voices seemed muffled, somehow. It was beautiful, but it was also creepy.

He was a strong man, and in good enough shape, but he was nevertheless tiring less than halfway there. Mairead’s husband and the rest of their children joined the group, the kids lobbing snowballs at one another, but Jamie pressed grimly on, until they’d reached the edge of the forest.

He wasn’t the only one who hesitated, gripped by unease. Lord Thranduil didn’t seem inclined to wait for them, though, so in they went.

The snow wasn’t as deep in here, though that wasn’t saying much – it just meant that there was one foot instead of three. A creek, rimmed with ice, gurgled to the right, but beyond that it was silent.

How strange, to be in here. It looked like any ordinary forest, but it didn’t _feel_ like one. There was a… _tingling_ , almost, alien but not unpleasant. He wondered if it was the magic he’d always been warned of, that would trap any trespassers.

How _lonely_ must Lord Thranduil have been, in here all by himself for centuries? It was no wonder he’d so firmly latched onto Lorna, and it explained a bit about his subtle obsession. It was beautiful in here, to be sure, but to be alone in it for so long – it was a wonder he wasn’t completely mad. But then, at his age, a few centuries might not seem long at all.

Jamie wasn’t the only one who had wondered just what kind of house the Elf could live in, and strangely, he wasn’t surprised to find that the front door, so to speak, led underground. When it was open, he followed Lord Thranduil, with Orla’s hand firm in his.

What he saw halted him a moment, until she smacked his shoulder to keep him moving.

This wasn’t a cave – this was like stepping into a whole other world. Somehow, there were rays of sunlight issuing from the roof, and golden lantern-light bathed the high walkways and massive trees – _trees_. It was warm, too, far warmer than he would have expected of a cave at any time, let alone when it was so cold outside.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Lorna asked. Lord Thranduil still hadn’t put her down, and Jamie had a feeling he wouldn’t, any time soon.

“It’s bloody _gorgeous_ ,” Orla breathed.

“I told Thranduil that whenever the zombie apocalypse finally happens, we’re all moving in here,” Lorna said. “There’s loads’v space. Thranduil, once we’ve got the twins settled, we should show them the kitchen. All that food’s got to go somewhere. And you really _can_ put me down now,” she added.

Lord Thranduil arched an eyebrow. “No, I still think I cannot,” he said. “Mistress Mairead, healer Barry, if you would follow me. The rest of you, explore as you like, but do not wander far. It would be easy enough for you to get lost.

Lorna rolled her eyes as he bore her and the twins away, Mairead, Doc Barry, and Shannon in two – apparently the girl refused to be left behind.

Jamie shook his head, and wondered just what they’d got themselves into.

\--

Mairead hurried after Lord Thranduil, trying not to gawk as she did. Never, ever would she have thought he would live anywhere like _this_ – what of the high walkways weren’t stone were massive tree roots, carpeted in places with velvety green moss. It didn’t smell at all musty or damp, as she would have expected of a cave; it actually smelled, weirdly, of sunshine.

Gran would love it here, if they could actually coax her out of her cottage. Knowing her, she wouldn’t budge until she ran out of either firewood or food.

“Shannon, will you not be careful? You’ll be over the edge in a heartbeat if you’re not!” Mairead said, exasperated.

“Christ, she’s got a point,” Lorna said. “Thranduil, we’ve got to kid-proof this place. I don’t want them falling off one’v these and breaking their neck.”

“We have time,” he said soothingly, and Mairead thought she knew part of the reason he’d managed to seduce Lorna so easily: his voice had probably done half the work for him. It ought to be classified as a weapon, under the right circumstances.

The room he led them to was one of the most beautiful she had ever seen – his bedroom, if the giant four-poster was any indication. It seemed to be more than that, though; two fat armchairs sat beside the fireplace, and he set Lorna in one before kneeling to build a fire. Somehow, though the hearth had to have been cold for days, the room was only a little cool, not freezing.

“They are so small they will both fit in Legolas’s bassinet,” he said, while the flames crackled to life. “And I will find something to hang their bags of saline and food on.”

“Who is Legolas?” Mairead asked, gravitating over to Lorna to look over her shoulder. Incredibly, the little boy was still asleep, but the girl stared up at her with Lorna’s eyes – eyes that seemed a bit too focused for a newborn.”

“My eldest child,” Lord Thranduil said, in a tone that discouraged any further questioning. “I still have all his things, from his infancy.”

“Wasn’t that a few thousand years ago?” Lorna asked, looking up at him.

He smirked down at her. “Elves live forever, Firieth Dithen. Our goods are made to last. Stay here, and stay warm.”

“Yes, Mother,” she said, and stuck her tongue out at his retreating back.

“I can’t believe he _lives_ here,” Shannon said, running her hand over the wall. The dark stone was carved with an impressing of trees, the lines inlaid with silver, slender branches curving upward. “Aunt Lorna, will _you_ live here?”

“Someday,” Lorna said. “For now, I like where I am – though that bed’s the most comfortable thing I’ve ever slept on. I’d steal it, if it wasn’t practically the size’v my bedroom.” She laughed. “Christ did I have a turn the first night I spent here. Thranduil hadn’t told me Elves sleep with their eyes open, so when I woke before him, I thought he was dead.”

Shannon wrinkled her nose. “They sleep with their eyes open? Creepy.”

“It was. Though he told me I look just as dead, from his perspective.”

“How romantic,” Doc Barry said dryly, carefully lifting the IV bags from Lorna’s arms. “Sooner or later, you and I need to talk birth control. I do not think hormone pills will work, considering he is not human.”

Mairead’s face burned, and she turned away. Really, she didn’t know why the subject disturbed her so much – it usually didn’t. Perhaps because this was her little sister, who had come to her so raw and so vulnerable.

“Yeah, I’d rather not risk going through _this_ again,” Lorna sighed. “Though I can’t bloody wait to see Thranduil’s face, when I show him what a condom is.”

“ _Gross_ ,” Shannon said. “Ugh, don’t even _talk_ about that.”

“It is a matter of practicality, Shannon,” Doc Barry said serenely. “Someday, you will want to know, too, unless you want to have sixteen children.”

Mairead shuddered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand they’re all nice and safe. Which is a damn good thing, since Colin is not done making a nuisance of himself, despite the discouragement he will receive.
> 
> Note: negative 15 degrees Centigrade is 17 degrees Fahrenheit. 
> 
> I’m still hard at work on _Auth uin i Ettelëai_ , but that one is giving me a bit of trouble, so it’s slower to update. I’ll get there eventually, though.
> 
> Title means “Moving day” in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with love.


	9. Fionnachtain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the villagers are impressed (and several of them begin to think), Thranduil shows Lorna a few things (and she is amazed), Colin gets a nasty shock (though not as nasty a one as the person _he_ shocked). Also, long chapter is long.

Once the twins were set up in the bassinet – a beautiful thing made of wood, the sides carved like delicate trees – Doc Barry ordered Lorna to bed, and Lorna did not want to go.

“But I want to show everyone around,” she protested. “I want to see their faces.”

“I didn’t put all those stitches in your incision just so you could pop them again by hiking all over,” Doc Barry said sternly, regarding her with crossed arms. “Lord Thranduil, back me up.”

“The healer is most likely right, Firieth Dithen,” he said, carding his fingers through Lorna’s tangled hair. “There is much to show – you can lead them around later. Rest, and when I return, I will comb your hair.

“Will you give me a backrub?” she wheedled.

“ _And_ a foot rub,” he promised, herding her back to the bed. “You have nightclothes here somewhere – put them on and get rid of… _these_.” He gestured at her hospital smock, the front still dotted with dried blood.

Mairead eyed him skeptically, arms crossed. “Would you consider giving husband-lessons while we’re here? I can’t remember the last time Kevin offered to rub my anything.”

Lorna snickered. “That’s what she said,” she muttered, unlacing her left boot.

Shannon burst out laughing, and Mairead pinched the bridge of her nose. “Thank you, the pair’v you.”

“You’re welcome,” Lorna said, with what little innocence she could muster.

“I will see what might be done, Mistress Mairead,” Thranduil said dryly. “If you will come with me, I will show you to rooms for your family. Lorna, rest.”

“Yes, Mother,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“I will stay a while,” Doc Barry said. “Otherwise I think she will stay up out of pure spite.”

Lorna wanted to protest, but the doc was kind of right. Not that she’d be able to manage it or very long; she really _was_ still tired. Her limbs felt unpleasantly heavy, and there was a certain sandy quality to her eyes that she couldn’t ignore.

“I will return, Firieth Dithen. Rest knowing that you and the twins are safe here.”

That _was_ a relief. The police or whoever could look all they liked – no one would find them in here. No one outside the village knew _here_ even existed.

Her pyjamas were a combination of his world and hers – soft, vivid purple fleece trousers, adorned with cat heads, and a long, warm nightdress of some incredibly soft green fabric. The trousers were a hand-me-down from Niamh, Mairead’s younger daughter, but Thranduil had yet to tell her where the nightdress came from. It smelled like the forest, like the ghost of a summer day.

She slipped both on and climbed into bed, watching the firelight play over the bassinet, while Doc Barry fussed with the IV’s. There were going to have to be many such combinations, because she would never be an Elf, and he would never be human, but their children were effectively both, until they made a decision one way or another. They needed to know about both worlds, so that that decision was well-informed.

For Thranduil’s sake, she hoped they chose to be Elves. Yes, it would mean that once she died, she’d never see them again, but she couldn’t bear the thought of him being all alone once she’d passed. He’d been on his own for like a thousand years before he met her – it might be a thousand more before he found someone else, assuming human civilization even survived that long. She would never wish that on someone she loved.

The thought startled Lorna, and she rolled onto her back, staring up at the carved branches that formed the canopy. _Did_ she love him? She’d been fond of him from the start, sure, but she hadn’t known him enough to trust his feelings. Now, though…he hadn’t left her side at the hospital. Her safety, her happiness, seemed to be the most important thing to him. 

There was, she was sure, a level of darkness in him. She’d seen hints of it – most blatantly, if one could call anything about him blatant, when he was confronted by the doctor. Lorna had no doubt at all he was capable of killing someone he saw as a threat.

But she had her own darkness, and she had a feeling Thranduil wouldn’t judge her for it. No, she’d never killed anyone on purpose, but she’d done some terrible things to people. Granted, they’d all been trying to do terrible things to _her_ , but still. There was a difference between punching someone to drive them off, and knocking them down to give them a Glasgow smile. These last months were the first time in her life she hadn’t had a hair-trigger temper; even when traveling with Liam, she’d been ready and willing to beat the tar out of anyone who looked at them wrong. Liam was a gentle soul he wouldn’t have been able to protect himself, so she’d done it for him.

Thranduil very obviously needed no protection. His strength alone was terrifying, but she’d seen enough of his reflexes to know they were much faster than hers. He needed no protection, but she’d protect him anyway. He, like Liam, made her want to be a better person, and that – _that_ was love. For good or ill, Lorna had never had a problem with who and what she was, but he made her want to be…more. More than a woman who had grown up dealing with life with her fists and teeth, rather than her brain.

Yes, she loved him. And in a way he was entirely unique: she need never worry that he too would die, and leave her alone. He wouldn’t abandon her for greener pastures, wouldn’t cheat on her; something in her doubted he would even lie to her. There was a streak of darkness in him, but there was in everyone.

Liam had known very little of her past. He would not have judged her for it if he did know, but she’d feared to tell him anyway, because she hadn’t wanted to taint the way he looked at her. Thranduil, however, was six thousand years old; he’d probably done worse than her, and more than once. There wasn’t anything in her past she feared to share with him. And if that wasn’t love, she didn’t know what was. That did not, however, mean she was ready to _tell_ him just yet.

\--

Mairead, in spite of everything, was fascinated. Thirty-eight years she’d lived in this village, and she’d had no idea this was here.

She could do without the high walkways, especially with Shannon flailing about in front of her, but never had she seen or imagined anything like this.

They passed a waterfall – a bloody _waterfall_ – the spray catching a rainbow from the sunlight that shouldn’t exist. How could such massive trees grow in here? Their branches formed an uneven lattice over the roof, their leaves still green in the dead of winter. Lord Thranduil was right; even the entire population of the village nowhere near filled it. This place was made for tens of thousands of people, yet he had been all alone here for centuries.

Why in God’s name would anyone leave this? She could well understand why he’d stayed, yet it had to be a bittersweet thing, knocking about in here by himself. Mairead was a pragmatic sort, and not overly given to sentiment, but she felt terribly sorry for him. All her life she’d feared him, and she was probably right to, but now she couldn’t help but pity him. So strong, so ancient and powerful – and yet so alone.

“You are very quiet, Mistress Mairead,” he said from behind her, and she jumped a little.

“I’ve always known you lived in the forest,” she said, “but I never gave much thought as to what your home was like. Though even if I had, I’d never’ve imagined _this_.”

She paused, and turned to him. He was watching her closely with his unsettling pale eyes, his head tilted slightly to one side. Mairead wasn’t a short woman, but he towered over her. Hell, he was taller than Bit Jamie. “I’ll be blunt, Lord Thranduil: you’re bloody terrifying, but I think the world lost more than it’ll ever know, when your people left. Though given the state’v it the last few thousand years, I can’t say I blame them.”

He gave her a tiny smile – a real smile, not a smirk. “I only hope the rest of your village thinks the same.”

“Trust me, they will. They—”

“Shiiit!”

Behind her, Shannon flailed and slipped, and Mairead’s heart lurched. Before she could try to grab her, Lord Thranduil darted around her with unnerving speed for one so tall, and caught Shannon’s un-injured arm.

“You must be careful, little Shannon,” he said, righting her. “You can hardly throw snowballs with _two_ broken arms.”

Mairead burst out laughing before she could help it.

\--

By unspoken consensus, none from the village wandered far. Instead they ranged themselves out on the mossy, rocky ground, and ate lunch.

Siobhan looked around with open wonder as she ate a sandwich of peanut butter and slightly frozen strawberry jam. She’d wondered all her life about Lord Thranduil and his forest, though she’d never been mad enough to go near it. She was curious, but she wasn’t stupid.

Though she’d never told anyone, she’d seen him once, when she was a child. She’d sat up late, reading with a torch, and she’d just happened to look up at the right time to see him passing in the distance. It had been a full moon, and his hair and his silver robe had almost seemed to glow.

Weirdly, she hadn’t been afraid. She’d known, with the stark clarity of children, that she needn’t fear him so long as she left him alone. Her mam, like all the other mothers, had used him as a kind of bogeyman to frighten their kids into good behavior, but Siobhan had realized at once that he wasn’t a monster – he was just a person, going about his business. Sure, he was basically an alien, but he wasn’t going to smash her window and cook her into a pie because she’d sat up late.

It was why she didn’t fear him now. Sure, he was dangerous as hell, but he wouldn’t come to the village so openly if he didn’t want to be seen, and he’d fallen in love with – and knocked up – a human. As long as nobody fucked with Lorna or his kids, he probably wasn’t going to hurt anyone. Though she pitied the person who tried to mess with his family.

When she’d finished her sandwich, she hauled herself to her feet and looked around. A little c reek wound through the stones, crystal-clear, and she tipped her fingers in it. Of course it was frigid, but it smelled…different. She couldn’t describe it – it wasn’t quite sweet, but it was close, and she leaned over to sniff it. Drinking it probably wasn’t safe, but it was tempting.

She sat back, and looked around. “How big is this place?” she wondered aloud.

“It runs under perhaps an eighth of Eire.”

Siobhan flailed, and nearly fell into the water. She hadn’t heard Lord Thranduil approach at all. “It’s _that_ big?” she asked, rising. “How has no one ever found it through, I dunno, drilling?”

“Most of it is very deep underground,” he said, his eyes roving the group. The entire population of the village was a little over three hundred, and it looked much smaller in this vast space. “Why do you not fear me, Mistress Siobhan?” he asked, looking back at her. This close, she could see there were flecks of silver in his eyes.

She shrugged. “I knew I didn’t need to, so long as I stayed out’v your way, so I stayed out’v your way. If you did half the things in the stories that’re told about you, nobody would stay in the village. It would’ve been empty ages ago. Nuala, she’s always known the same. It’s just commons sense.”

He snorted, and it was such an incongruously _human_ sound. “Someday, you people must tell me all of these stories,” he said. “I would very much like to know what has been twisted over the generations.”

Siobhan winced. “You probably wouldn’t,” she said. “Some’v them are pretty bad.”

He arched an eyebrow. “That will only make them more interesting.”

Somehow, she didn’t think that would end well. At all.

\--

Colin couldn’t believe his luck. He was also slightly terrified.

He’d taken to pouring over the Donovan twins’ bloodwork on his breaks, as though staring at it long enough would somehow bring him an epiphany. He was doing exactly that on his lunch break when Doctor Corcoran sat across from him.

Andrew Corcoran was a bit of a legend. Somewhere in his fifties, with an impressive thatch of salt-and-pepper hair, he was the best neurosurgeon the hospital had ever had. He also had the reputation of being something of a martinet, and Colin would freely admit he was daunted by the man.

“Every time I see you, you’re staring at that,” he said, taking a bite of a bearclaw. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Colin said, embarrassed. “Just the Donovan twins’ bloodwork. There are a few…anomalies, but she and her boyfriend took off with them before I could run any more tests. They’re the ones that stole the ambulance.”

Doctor Corcoran snorted. “Mad, they are. I’m surprised they didn’t wind up back in here.”

Colin shook his head, a little ruefully. “Donovan – Lorna – seems like a pretty stubborn woman, and her boyfriend even more so. Creepy bloke, he was. I’ve never seen eyes like that in my life, though hers weren’t much better. I wouldn’t put it past the pair’v them to have made it all the way back to Lasgaelen.”

To his immense shock, Doctor Corcoran paled. As he was a rather ruddy man, it was quite noticeable. “Doctor O’Donnell,” he said, his voice not quite steady, “what did he look like?”

Colin stared. “Well, he was bloody tall – six five, at least – with long blond hair. Pale blond, almost white, and his eyes, they were pale, too. Blue, very blue, but pale. I thought they were contacts at first.”

Doctor Corcoran dropped his bearclaw, his complexion so grey Colin feared he would pass out. What was wrong with him? Colin hadn’t thought anything could stun him like this. “Doctor, are you all right?”

“Colin, I am going to give you some advice,” he said, deadly serious. “It may sound mad, but it may well safe your life: destroy those. Don’t pursue this. I grew up in Lasgaelen – I know who that man is. He is incredibly possessive of what he considers his, and if he thinks you’re at threat to that, he _will_ kill you.”

Colin wanted to think he was joking, but there was nothing but gravity in his tone and expression. Hell, it was more than gravity – the man was outright spooked.

Colin looked down at the bloodwork, and back up at Corcoran. “He’s not human, is he?” he asked. “That’s why the results are so…wrong.”

“No,” Doctor Corcoran said bluntly. “He’s lived outside the village as long as there’s _been_ a village. Burn that, and don’t tell anyone. If he has a wife and a family to protect, he may well hunt you down anyway.”

Colin thought of how solicitous the man had been to Lorna – it bordered on obsessive, and always when she wasn’t looking. “What _is_ he?”

“None’v us know for sure,” Doctor Corcoran said, picking up his bearclaw. “Only that he’s immortal, and that no one who goes into that forest ever comes out with their sanity intact – if they come out at all. You do _not_ want to tangle with him, Colin. He’s more dangerous than anyone else you’ll ever meet.”

“How can anyone live there, with him so close?”

“Because if we leave him alone, he leaves us alone,” Corcoran said. “It’s been that way since forever.”

“Well, he very obviously didn’t leave Lorna Donovan alone,” Colin snorted. “Maybe he’s decided to be more active.”

“They God help the village, because no one else can.”

\--

Eventually, Lorna had fallen asleep. When she woke, it was to Thranduil and Doc Barry hovering over the twins. 

“Your children really are remarkable, Lorna,” the doctor said, when she sat up. “Already they are more aware than any newborn I have ever seen.”

Lorna struggled to her feet and looked down. Sure enough, both twins were looking up, their green eyes focused and curious.

“Well, they _are_ half Elf,” she said. “How are they otherwise?”

“Surprisingly stable. You will not, I think, be able to nurse them, but they seem far hardier than I would expect of babies so premature.”

Well, that was a relief, considering she hadn’t produced any milk. Pregnancy had left her with disappointingly little in the way of tits; apparently she was doomed to remain flat-chested until the end of time. She’d gone rather soft around the middle, which felt weird, but she hadn’t lost any of her muscle. Once this incision healed, she was pretty sure she could be as active as she liked again. “Have we got enough’v that food for them?”

“For now. In a few weeks I will have to order more. I brought all we had of it and saline, in case we are here a while.”

Lorna wondered just how long ‘a while’ would prove to be. She wanted to go see the snow, but she hesitated to leave the twins, for all they seemed to be fine.

“Thranduil, d’you think – could we go up top for a bit?” she asked, glancing from him to Doc Barry and back again.

“If he is willing to carry you, I have no objection,” the doctor said. “I will stay with the twins. Lord Thranduil, do not let her walk around, no matter how much she pesters you.”

“I think I can manage that,” he said dryly. “Put on something warmer, Firieth Dithen, and I will take you to see the snow.”

“Put on _what_ , exactly?” she asked. She didn’t have any of her regular clothes here, and she’d be swamped in his.

He gave her something that was half-smirk, half-smile. “Wait here,” he said, and made his utterly silent way out the door.

Lorna shook her head. “I am buying him a bell,” she said. “He has way too much fun sneaking up on people.” She reached down to stroke Saoirse’s fuzz of pale hair, stained reddish in the firelight. It was too early to tell what her ears would be like, but somehow, her complexion seemed to favor Lorna’s more than Shane’s did. Thank God neither were as white as their da, because while Thranduil probably didn’t sunburn, the twins were half human, and likely would. “I hope they wind up taller than me,” she said.

“They’re awfully big for preemies,” Doc Barry said. “They probably will be. Though I hope they are not as tall as their father – with that hair and your eyes, they will stand out enough as it is, even if they have not inherited their father’s ears. Though at least there is plastic surgery, if they wish it.”

Lorna kind of hoped they wouldn’t, though it would be safer if they did. She didn’t want them to hide what they were, but realistically, they had to, if they ever wanted to venture beyond the village. Unlike Thranduil, this was the only world they would ever know. And that was incredibly fucking sad.

They ought to have more siblings, but she just didn’t think she could do that again. Besides, she was twenty-nine; she only had a few more years where it would be _safe_ for her to have kids. At least she’d wound up with two on the first try.

When Thranduil returned, he had a pair of deep brown trousers, a dark green tunic-thing, and a heavy brown cloak, all of which looked like they would fit suspiciously well. “Those belonged to a child, didn’t they?” she asked.

“They did,” he affirmed, laying them out on the bed. “Tauriel, my ward.”

“And you’ve kept them all this time?” she asked, running her fingers over the tunic. That was surprisingly sentimental.

“Well, I _did_ raise her,” he said. “Her parents were killed when she was very small. She was the only survivor of her village, and when I found her, she refused to let go of me. Raising her was easier than sending her away.”

“Uh-huh,” Lorna said dubiously. He’d probably never admit he found the kid too cute to let go of, but she was sure that was the case.

She wondered just how old these clothes were, as she kicked off her pyjama trousers and pulled on the ones he’d brought. They didn’t look or _feel_ old, but he had to have had them for at least a thousand years. The Elves really did make their stuff to last. She couldn’t identify the material, but it was soft and warm, and the tunic even more so. The cloak she’d leave off until they were outside, or she was afraid she’d roast.

Once she’d stuffed her feet into her boots, Thranduil picked her up, and off they went. She wondered what the rest of the village was doing, and hoped nobody had got lost. Even in all the months she’d been visiting, _she_ still hadn’t seen the whole of the caves.

When they reached the door, she had Thranduil set her down so she could put on her heavy cloak, and they stepped out into an alien world of white.

The light had grown even stranger, though she wasn’t sure if that was the effect of the weather or the forest. The cold made her lungs burn, but it was bracing rather than unpleasant. While it was likely dumping outside the trees, in here, the snowflakes fluttered down intermittently.

“I wish it did this more often,” she said, taking an experimental step. The snow squeaked beneath her boot. “I know it’s a bloody nuisance, and it’ll be a bigger one when this melts and everything floods, but it’s just so damn _beautiful_.”

She looked up at Thranduil, and found a trace of hesitation in his pale eyes. “Lorna, do you trust me?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” she said.

He took her hands, which were already chilled. “I would like to show you something, but I must touch your mind to do it.”

“Touch my _mind_?” she asked, staring. “Like what, telepathy?” Christ, was there no end to his bag of tricks?

“Something like that, yes,” he said seriously. Cloudy though it was, she’d swear she could see starlight shining off his hair. “But only if you grant me permission.”

That…okay, that was a big thing to ask. Her mind was, well, her _mind_ – but this was Thranduil. If there was one thing she was absolutely certain of, it was that he would never, ever hurt her.

“Okay,” she said, a little unsteadily. “Just don’t go digging around in there, all right?”

“I will not,” he said, giving her fingers a light squeeze. “I wish to show, not read.”

He turned her to face away from the door, standing behind her, still holding her hands. She wondered what he had in mind, until her vision…shifted.

If there were any words to describe it, she didn’t have them. Glimmering ghost-images appeared before her eyes, each with their own pale radiance – people, tall men and women, wearing either dresses or tunics of the sort she now wore. Though some were obviously speaking, she couldn’t hear anything; this was strictly visual. They moved with such inhuman fluidity that they had to be Elves, even without a clear view of their ears, and they shone like starlight, outlined in a luminescence that ebbed and flared like a heartbeat.

“What…?” she asked, but was unable to finish the question.

“The forest has its own memory,” Thranduil said, his breath a warm ghost against the crown of her head. “You cannot see it, but I can.”

Lorna hadn’t realized the forest had its own consciousness, but really, she should have. It had had Elves living in it for at least five thousand years; it had probably become – oh, hell, what was the term? A genius loci? Something like that.

“Is this really how you see _everything_ , all the time?” she asked. She’d known he could see souls, but this – _this_ was almost overwhelming. This would be like a permanent acid trip, albeit a good one.

“It is,” he said, running his fingers through her tangled hair. “All Elves see thus. I do not know whether our children will or not, as they are physically mostly Edain.”

“How come they’re like that, and not Elves?” she asked, unable to take her eyes off the translucent figures. 

“Because you are their mother. All the other Peredhel – half-Elves – were at their base Elvish, for the mothers were all Eldar. Ours will likely age as Edain do, at least at first; we will not have forty-year-old teenagers.”

Lorna shuddered. “Thank God for that.” She looked down at the fluffy white around them. “Thranduil, have you ever built a snowman?”

“Not in a very, very long time, and I do not think you should,” he said. “If you aggravate your incision, your healer may well order bed rest.”

She made a face. “You’re probably right, dammit. It just figures that the one time we get snow, I’m all but laid up.”

“This will not be going anywhere any time soon,” he said. “After a few more days of rest, I am certain your healer will allow you more liberty.”

Lorna wasn’t counting on it. While she was a sturdy little creature, some things just took time to get over, and having your abdomen sliced open was probably one of them. “D’you have anything that’ll help it heal faster?” she asked, looking up at him.

“I might,” he said, smoothing the hair back from her forehead. “I will take you to the healing wards, and we shall see.”

\--

Andrew Corcoran was rather worried, for he was quite certain Colin would not leave well enough alone – and equally certain it would end badly for him. Andrew _had_ to get to Lasgaelen before he did, and warn the rest of the village, but _how_? Even with the few snowplows they’d managed to borrow – most from Norway and Sweden – it was coming down so hard that they’d no sooner get a stretch plowed than they had to start over again.

It meant Colin wasn’t going anywhere yet, either, but the lad was still on the young side, and so curious he might well do something reckless. The village needed warning, but the mobile network was down all over the place, and the only landline Kevin remembered was the pub – which no one was answer. Like a fool, he no longer had a paper phone book, and as the internet was down, he couldn’t check one online.

The power kept flickering in his flat, too, which worried him. He had a fireplace, but it was gas; if he lost power, it would be useless. He’d been running it since he got off work, leaving the flat sweltering – but he might well be glad of that later.

He had the next two days off, and he wasn’t on-call. One way or another, he’d find a way to get to Lasgaelen, before Colin could get his fool self killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least Bridie and the Americans will be around to greet either of those two, if they actually make it to Lasgaelen. Bridie’s not going anywhere until she absolutely has to.
> 
> Title means "Discovery" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with light and hope.


	10. Am Scéalaíochta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the villagers learn something nasty, Thranduil reaches some unwelcome conclusions, and the village is not, in fact, the only group that knows about him.

Bridie was well aware the Americans had to be going stir-crazy, though they were too polite to say so. They hauled wood inside, and did every little chore she had, but they were obviously bored to tears – until the girl, Jennifer, looked out the window. She froze, wide-eyed, and swore.

A large gaggle of people – what looked like the whole bloody village, in fact – were treading through the falling snow. At their head was Lord Thranduil, carrying a bundle that was, going by the quantity of hair, probably Lorna. _What_ in God’s name were the lot of them doing?

Bridie’s eyes narrowed when she saw him lead them all into the forest. He was up to something, but she could hardly go find out _what_ in this weather.

“He’s – he’s not in Dublin anymore,” Jennifer whispered. 

“No, he’s not, but he’ll have his hands full with that lot for a while. Wait fifteen minutes, then go throw that stone back. If you’ve not got it, he’ll be less angry when he finds you’re still here,” Bridie said.

The boy, Bryan, swallowed audibly. “When?” he repeated.

“There’s not much that goes on around here that he doesn’t know about,” she said, a little grimly. “He’ll not _harm_ you, not when the whole village’d find out if he did, but I can’t promise he wouldn’t lock you up. Village wouldn’t mind _that_ – they don’t want news’v him getting out any more than he does. He might be a spook, but he’s _our_ spook.”

Jennifer tore her eyes from the window and looked a Bridie. “What – um, what happens if we run out of food or firewood?” she asked, a little hesitantly.

“Then we’ll have to go to him. He’ll not leave you out to freeze,” Bridie assured her.

“How do you know?” Bryan asked.

“Because Lorna wouldn’t let him. I don’t think he’s capable’v denying her anything, whether she knows it or not. You’ll be safe enough – but I’ve no plans on going anywhere if we’ve not go to. I’ve weathered all sorts’v storms in this cottage, even if none’v them were _quite_ like this. We’ll manage.”

\--

Mairead wasn’t terribly interested in the visiting the kitchen, but Kevil was. Of the pair of them, he was by far the better cook, and interested in _everyone’s_ kitchen.

This was vast and echoing and heartbreakingly empty. It was big enough for a score of cooks, with a fireplace a good fifteen feet long and ten high, and a row of iron stoves that looked far too clean for how long they had to have sat unused. The stone floor looked like it had been washed yesterday, the long oak counters seemingly freshly scrubbed – it was waiting for an army of cooks that would never return.

Mairead was not sentimental woman, but Lord Thranduil’s halls, though beautiful, hurt her to the core. How many people must have lived here, once? How could he stay here, all alone?

She ran her hand over the counter, the wood satin-smooth under her fingertips. How was Lorna going to fare, if she moved in here? Oh, she would have Lord Thranduil and the twins, but she was used to living with a lot of people and not a lot of space, not the other way around. True, it was hardly far from the village, but there was something so very, very _sad_ about this place. It was a living relic of a world that no longer existed. Of a people who _almost_ didn’t exist anymore.

How could she have lived next to this forest all her life, and never really wondered about it? She felt rather terrible now that she’d never investigated, but really, Lorna had been lucky she hadn’t got in worse trouble when _she_ did. Thank bloody God she’d offered him that song. Mairead didn’t know _what_ would have happened. It had all worked out – so far, at least.

“We should have a bloody big barbecue,” she said. “Molly and the lads brought half the Market with them, I swear. Someone has to use this kitchen, before it has a chance to forget what it is.”

\--

Nuala was rabidly curious to see what Lord Thranduil had called the healing wards, so it was as well she had run into him and Lorna on their way back in. She followed, heedless of their chatter, taking in her surroundings with open greed.

The wards, like the cave itself, were _massive_ , far bigger than her little surgery. Immediately through the door was what looked very like a triage room – a large open space, with rows of beds. Each had a pillow and a neatly folded blanket at the foot, and she felt a pang of sorrow when she wondered how long they had sat there, unused.

And yet everything – the bunks, the oak counters, the shelves full of glass jars of all colors and sizes – was weirdly clean for a place that was probably never used. She couldn’t imagine Lord Thranduil with a mop and bucket, so who did it?

The further in they went, the stronger the smell of herbs brew – some bitter, some sweet, and all totally foreign to Nuala. She wanted to think they couldn’t be as good as modern medicine, but there had to be a reason Elves lived forever.

“Lord Thranduil, how do you keep everything so _clean_?” she asked, as he helped Lorna up onto a bed. This too was apparently a general treatment room, though not as large as the triage area, with more neat rows of beds. “I haven’t even seen a single cobweb.”

He smirked a little as he sorted through a shelf of jars, no two the same shape or color. “That would be telling,” he said, grabbing a red one and a twisted, fluted orange one. “Someday, when I know you all better, there are many things I will tell you, but not yet. Lorna, I need to see your abdomen.”

Nuala helped her hike her tunic up and her trousers down. The incision was a bit red, but there were no signs of infection, and she hadn’t popped any stitches or staples. “I’ll tell you both that you shouldn’t have more kids,” Nuala said. “Once a woman’s had a C-section, odds’re good she’ll need another with a subsequent pregnancy, and after _this_ horror show, that wouldn’t be wise.”

“I couldn’t do that again anyway,” Lorna sighed. “I don’t know why any woman would voluntarily do it more than once.”

“Most ellyth – female Elves – do not,” Lord Thranduil said, opening the red jar. It smelled like feverfew, which Nuala only knew because her granny grew it. “While few die in childbirth, it drains their strength far more than Edain pregnancies.”

“What do Elves use for birth control?” Nuala asked, watching him scoop out a clear, jelly-like substance – without washing his hands first, she noticed with a wince.

“We do not need it,” he said, approaching Lorna. “Ellyth only conceive when they want to.”

“God, that’s cold,” Lorna said, when he smeared it over her incision. “Y’know, I’m starting to think you lot have the edge over us in almost _everything_. You live forever, your senses are better, you don’t get sick – why the hell aren’t you the dominant species, and not us?”

“Immortality is as much a curse as a blessing, Firieth Dithen,” he said, dabbing at the incision. “In the twenty thousand years my people inhabited this world, our societies remained largely stagnant. When one lives forever, one has little need for change. Your people’s lives are so short that you embrace it. Look how very far you have come in little more than a century.

“I could not live in your world. I could not even stay too long in your village without feeling ill. Eldar, for all our seeming advantages, are not adaptable creatures. For thousands upon thousands of years, we had no need to be. And then came the Obliteration.”

“What _was_ that, anyway?” Lorna asked, as he fetched the other jar.

“Tonight, when we all eat dinner, I will bring the twins with us to the dining hall, and I will tell you,” he said. “It is sooner than I would like, but this snowstorm unsettles me, and it is better you know now than later. It is not a pleasant story, but as your people say, to be forewarned is to be forearmed.”

Nuala didn’t like _that_ at all, and from her expression, neither did Lorna. Anything called the _Obliteration_ had to be worse than unpleasant. It also had to be at least part of why Lord Thranduil was the only Elf left.

\--

In truth, Thranduil did not at all want to talk about the Obliteration. He didn’t want to _think_ about it, but this village, and its people, were his. And he took care of his own.

He finished up with Lorna and sent her off to gather the others. She knew where the dining hall was, though they had never eaten there. After their initial tour, they had spent most of their time in the comfort of his room.

He went to fetch the twins, and wished he had no need to fear, but Thranduil was nothing if not a pragmatist: the plain truth was that this snowstorm was not natural. And he could think of but one reason for it, however much he wished he was wrong. 

Something was stirring. Something the world had not seen in a thousand years.

He found healer Barry hovering over the twins. Both were awake now, looking up at her with a focus that was literally inhuman. They did indeed have their mother’s eyes – that unearthly green that would not have been out-of-place on one of the Eldar. It had made him question her ancestry; several descendents of the Peredhel had chosen mortality, and he wondered if Lorna was many generations removed from one. It would explain her rather unusual strength, even if there was nothing else that marked her as not entirely Edain. She was certainly susceptible to illness, and didn’t seem to heal faster than any other Edain, but she was very strong, and her eyes did not belong in an Edain face. It was enough to make him wonder.

“You look very thoughtful,” the healer said.

“Unfortunately, I must soon share my thoughts,” he sighed. “Neither you nor anyone else will like any of them.”

“Do they have anything to do with the snowstorm?” she asked.

“They have everything to do with it. I fear what it might herald.” He unhooked the food and saline bags and carefully tucked them into the bassinet, packed around the twins. Both watched as he picked it up, their eyes tracking his face with full awareness, and they kept watching while he bore them out the door and down the hall, the healer at his heels.

It really was quite strange – though their numbers were so few, his Edain guests made his halls seem far more alike than they had felt in centuries. Perhaps he should have done this long ago. He would not be averse to holding parties in the future. And if things, in time, went as ill as he feared they might…well, there was enough space for his Edain to breed and prosper for centuries. Provided he could find a way to _feed_ them.

Thranduil had known he would have a family with Lorna and the twins. He had not expected to find one in the village. While many of them were still leery of him, some were surprisingly sanguine. And they all conspired to keep his existence a secret from the outside world.

He owed it to them to protect them in return, if necessary.

When he reached the dining-hall, he found Lorna had already gathered everyone, though their group looked pathetically small, barely taking up one end of one long table. They had spread it with paper plates of sandwiches and cold salads, with plastic cups and cans of the swill they called ale, chattering animatedly to one another. Already they looked perfectly at home, and they had been here less than a day.

He set the bassinet on the table near Lorna, letting the healer fuss with the food and saline. Thranduil himself sat on the edge of the table, watching them all.

“The tale I tell you is not pleasant,” he said, “nor is it short, but I will spare you the gory details.” The _literally_ gory details. “Once, long ago,” he went on, running his fingers over his son’s downy head, “there were Edain possessed of magical abilities. Some there are still, but very, very few.”

He held up is free hand, forestalling questions. “They were never very many, and they hid well, preferring to live in their own communities, rather than risk life in the normal world.

“How long they had existed, I do not know, but a little over a thousand years ago, a sickness befell them – and my people. Most of the Eldar had already left this world by then, but nearly all who had remained, perished. The survivors called it the Obliteration, for it affected every being possessed of even a little magic.”

“What caused it?” Nuala asked.

Thranduil sighed. “One of the Gifted, as they called themselves. He sought immortality, and while he found it, he contracted the plague that doomed almost the whole of his kind and mine.”

He paused, staring at nothing. “We trapped him, in the end – those of us that survived. He has been imprisoned outside this world for a thousand years. I question, however, just how effective his prison is – because of this storm. Errant magic has always most frequently discharged itself in the weather. While I have felt none stir in _this_ world, this is not the _only_ world.”

As he had expected, this was greeted with silence. It likely _would_ be difficult for the pragmatic Edain of modern Earth to wrap their minds around. Finally, Mairead’s eldest raised her hand.

“How did you survive?” she asked.

He smiled, grim and humorless. “I did as I have always done,” he said. “I stayed here, as long as I could. And it is here, if that waking nightmare ever walks the world again, that you will stay as well. You will call back all those of your family who have scattered, and you will live in safety until he can be dealt with once more. No Edain, no matter how much power he wields, can breach my forest against my direct will.

“I do not know how it is that you acquire food, but I want you to start hoarding it. It might be years yet ere something comes of my fears, but when there does come a time we must seal ourselves away, we must be able to eat. And that time _will_ come – of that I am sure, though I wish I was not.”

“Why – why would you do that for us?” Big Jamie asked. He had his youngest seated on his knee, a protective arm wrapped around her.

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. “You _are_ all on my land,” he said. “Edain you may be, but that makes me your King, and it is a terrible King who fails to protect his own people. Say nothing to your expatriate family yet, but know that you must, when I give the word.”

\--

Thranduil actually slept that night – a mistake, for talk of the Obliteration inevitably stirred up nightmarish memory.

The island of Eire had been sparsely populated then; every time the numbers of the Edain began to swell, some disease came along and culled them.

A small village of Gifted had lived on the edge of his forest – it was much larger then, still stretching over nearly a quarter of the island. But for them, he would not have known the nature of the malady that befell the world.

He’d _felt_ it falling immediately, he and the few of his people who remained: it was a strange, dark tingling, a prickling within his mind. He’d been walking in the woods one warm, sunny afternoon, and halted dead in his tracks, icy horror washing over him.

Something had gone wrong. Something had gone very, very wrong, something so evil and _alien_ that he had never felt it’s like in all of his five thousand years. He shuddered, wracked with disgust, revulsion crawling through him. Whatever it was, it wasn’t just wrong, it was _profane._

Perhaps, if he had had Galadriel’s Mirror, he might have been able to do something sooner. If he had only known what it was that they faced…but no one could have known. Not until they _were_ faced with it.

He’d walked to the edge of the forest, to the village o the Gifted, and looked up at the blue, blue sky, half expecting to see some visible taint. The Gifted themselves had not felt it, he learned later, but that was no surprise; while they possessed magic, their senses did not differ from those of any other Edain.

They greeted his arrival with no small amount of trepidation, emerging from their huts. They were used to seeing Elves, for a few of his people often visited them, but he himself had not come to the village since well before the eldest of them were born. While they did not precisely _fear_ him – he had never given them cause, and his people were friendly – they were wary.

This lot, thanks to the influence of their neighbors, were rather cleaner than most Edain, and better-fed. Few could read in their own tongue, but many read Tengwar, and they all knew at least a smattering of Sindarin. Which was just as well, since he knew next to nothing of their language.

Their leader, such as they even had one, was an old woman by the standards of her kind, stooped and wrinkled, with piercing eyes so dark they were nearly black. She read auras, and his must have been quite unsettled, for her eyes widened.

“Something stirs,” he said, before she could ask. “I do not yet know what it is, and until I do, I suggest you not travel abroad. You are safe here.”

He had not yet known it, but he lied. And he made a fatal mistake.

He should have taken them with him. Eru knew that by then he had far more than enough room; he should have brought them into the safety of his forest.

The pestilence started in Eire; while it did not affect ordinary Edain, they could spread it. When next he visited the village, it was because one of the healers all but dragged him there, and he found that every single one of them was very dead.

And they had died horribly. Blood leaked from their blank, sightless, lifeless eyes, from noses and ears, their bodies forever twisted in poses of agony.

It had struck him surprisingly hard. Yes, they were Edain, and if there was one thing Edain excelled at, it was dying, but they had been _his_ Edain, blessed with their own form of magic.

He should not have left them. And, whatever was coming, he would not make the same mistake. He would not leave this village, even if they _were_ likely immune.

Why he had been spared, he did not know to this day – for his healer had brought it back with her, and half of his own people had bled and sweat their lives away, delirious with fever.

And _that_ should have been _impossible_. It was how he had known this was no ordinary pestilence. Eldar simply did not sicken, ever, yet this felled his people like a scythe through wheat. It was a slow, lingering nightmare of a death, one he would not wish even upon his enemies of old.

And yet, somehow, he had been spared.

He nursed the dying himself, for he would allow no other to risk their lives in doing so. And one by one, he buried them, for none who contracted the disease survived. None.

And then….

He had lied to Lorna, about Legolas taking ship. _Why_ , he didn’t know, for he had not lied about anything else. Somehow, it was a secret he was simply unable to share, even a thousand years later – even with the woman he loved.

The boy had come to the healing wards, which by now were half-empty, glassy-eyed, his cheeks flushed with fever in his pallid face, and the bottom dropped out of Thranduil’s world. For Legolas, at least, the end came quickly; he was dead within days, rather than lingering a week or more, and Thranduil….

In truth, Thranduil remembered little of what followed. He nursed and buries his people, and then he took up his sword, leaving the survivors safe at home. He met up with the scattering of the world’s Gifted who were as yet unaffected – he, and what few other Eldar remained – and they…took care of things. Permanently.

Or so they thought. He was very much afraid they were wrong.

\--

Lorna lay awake long after Thranduil had gone to sleep – and she only knew he _was_ asleep thanks to the fixed blankness of his stare. That would never not be creepy.

His hair spread out on the pillow like a pale corona, his skin almost luminescent in the dancing light of the fire. He had a habit of sleeping naked – which had been pretty tempting, a time or two, when her hormones had been spiking – and her eyes traveled the flawless expanse of his chest. How could anyone’s skin be so pristine?

He was tense, though, even in sleep, so tense she could feel it without touching him. No doubt he was having a nightmare – if Elves could even have nightmares.

He twitched in his sleep, brow furrowing, and she scooted closer to him, lightly running her fingers through his silky hair. “It’s all right, allanah,” she said softly. “Whatever it is, it’s just a dream.” She smoothed the line between his eyebrows with her thumb, her touch light and soothing. “You’re her with us, with me and Shane and Saoirse. Wake up, now.”

Thranduil twitched again, but she knew from the change in his breathing that this time he was awake. He grabbed her, pulling her close, bringing her head to rest against his chest.

“Let me guess,” she said, pressing her cheek against his skin, “the Obliteration?”

“Yes,” he said, the word a canyon-deep sigh. He twined his fingers in her tangled hair. “I have seen many horrors in my life, Firieth Dithen, but that was the worst by far. I fear – I fear this might be my fault, at least in part.”

“How?” she asked, tracing an idle pattern over his chest with her fingers.

“It has been nearly two thousand years since any Eldar were born into this world,” he sighed. “Yes, our children are Peredhel, and physically they are predominately Edain, but their fëa are a blend of both. That this storm should occur so soon after their birth cannot be a coincidence.”

A sliver of ice worked its way into Lorna’s heart. “Why?” she asked. “Why would that do… _this_?”

Thranduil stroked her hair. “Eldar are possessed of more magic than I have ever shown you,” he said. “I had not thought – well, I had not thought. You longed for a child and I gave you two, without pausing to consider the consequences.

“There has been so very little magic in this world for a thousand years. I think, perhaps, that it did not know what to do with it.” He sighed again. “And I fear we may have…visitors, if any of those who remain still remember I exist.”

“Those?” she questioned.

“Descendants of the few surviving Gifted. They will not be pleased with us – with me. _You_ could hardly have been expected to know better, but _I_ should have.”

She sat up enough to look at him. “They’ll not try to hurt the twins, will they?”

“No,” he assured her, trailing her fingers over her arm. “They do not kill their own kind. And should anyone be foolish enough to think it a wise idea, none would dare cross _me_.”

 _That_ she could well believe. Lorna had a feeling Thranduil could be completely terrifying, if he chose.

\--

Miranda Black stood in the DMA’s meteorology center, frowning at the dark blue Rorschach blot on the large wall-screen.

Strange weather events were far from uncommon, and hadn’t been for twenty years. The DMA tracked all of them, and none had proved to be anything out of the ordinary.

Until now.

The only reason the damn thing wasn’t even worse was because the Trees were working overtime to absorb it. And unfortunately, she knew what – who – was causing it. It was the one person left on Earth she couldn’t knock out.

“You’ve got that expression,” Julifer said. A head and a half shorter than Miranda, she was a young Maori woman with a vivid purple pixie cut and more tattoos than Miranda had ever seen on one person. “You know what this is, so spill. What do we do about it?”

Miranda sighed. “Nothing,” she said. “I _do_ know what it is, and who did it, but there’s not a damn thing we can do except chew him out. As if he’d care.”

“He _ought_ to care,” Julifer said. “It’s dangerous. Who is it?”

“Lord Thranduil,” Miranda sighed. “The last of the Eldar. He does what he wants. We’d best go see just what the he hell he _is_ doing, because he ought to know better.” She really didn’t want to know what it was, or why, because there was a reason he’d been left alone for so long. Several reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil is in fact going to get several visitors, which will be all kinds of fun for everyone involved.
> 
> Title means “Story Time” in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with light and hope. And candy. Mmm candy.


	11. Cuairteoirí

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna and Thranduil get in their first fight, they have a small stream of visitors, and she tells him she loves him in a way that’s very…well, _Lorna._

The next day, Lorna and Thranduil unhooked the twins from their assorted bags for a while, and took them for a little walk around the halls. They were already so aware that he thought it good they see one-half of what would be their home.

She looked down at Shane’s big green eyes, which were roving around, taking in the trees and pillars. Doc Barry would probably be pissed that she was out of bed, but the doc could deal with it. Her kids needed stimulation – they couldn’t just lie in that cot forever, no matter how pretty it was.

She’d swear they’d both grown, too, impossible though that was. They didn’t look quite so fragile, for all they were still both way smaller than any respectable newborn.

“Will they sound like you or me, I wonder?” she asked. “Because you sound bloody English.”

Thranduil smirked. “No,” he said, “the English sound like _me_. One of the last colonies of the Eldar was located in the island of Britannia. There, and in the land you call Scandinavia.”

“Then why don’t _they_ sound like you?” she demanded.

“They do. They sound like the Eldar that once lived there. Our accents could vary as much as the Edain, Firieth Dithen, even if our cultures do not differ so much as yours.

“Someday, when the children are older, I will take you across the ocean, to the northern lands which once held a vast empire of my people. We have always found it easier to live where there are fewer of you, and in that part of the world there were next to no Edain for thousands of years. We could move freely, without fear of discovery.”

“How d’you know there aren’t any still there?” she asked.

“I would feel them, if there were,” he said, that now-familiar thread of sorrow in his voice. “With magic mostly gone from the world, they could not stay. They _would_ not stay.”

“And you couldn’t bear to leave.” Lorna still couldn’t imagine _why_ , but she doubted he knew himself. “I’m glad you didn’t, or I’d never’ve met you.” She didn’t want to imagine what her life would have been like, otherwise – stable, yes, and safe, but one of her worst faults was how easily she got bored. She would have been raising hell by now, without him, just for something to do.

“I knew, for whatever reason, that I must stay,” he said. “Perhaps it was to meet you.”

That was one of the sweetest damn things anyone had ever said to her, and she had no idea what to do with it. When it came to emotional things, she was not, as Mairead would say, good at using her words. “Maybe,” she said awkwardly, watching Shane yawn. “This little one needs a nap, I think. We’d best get them settled.”

As the twins needed constant watching, they’d moved the bassinet to the dining-hall, where there were always at least a few people about. It mean nobody was stuck in Thranduil’s bedroom, away from the others. 

Halfway there, beside the little chuckling creek, Thranduil paused, and raised his head.

“What?” she asked.

“Someone is in my forest,” he said darkly. “I must investigate, once we have settled the twins.”

“I’m coming with you,” Lorna said firmly. “Don’t you give me that look, Thranduil Oropherion. It’s my forest too, now.”

He looked poised to argue, so she poked him in the chest, carefully avoiding Saoirse. “ _No_ ,” she said. “You do not get to leave me down here.”

He shook his head, starting on again toward the dining hall. “It could be dangerous,” he said, cradling little Saoirse.

“Thranduil, before I came to this village, very little in my life could have been counted as _safe_ ,” she retorted. “And have you forgot Grand Theft Ambulance? I’m not some badass Elf, but I’m not exactly helpless.”

A glance at his pale profile told her he was irritated, but that was fine. Lorna had known she’d annoy him sooner or later, and she’d actually had a feeling that this would be why. An American would call him old-school – _very_ old-school in some ways, and over-protectiveness was one of them. And _that_ she was not going to stand for. Not for nothing had she been taking care of herself her entire life.

The dining-hall had Mick and Alec playing checkers on an improvised board, and a smattering of people still eating brunch. The twins would be looked after just fine, so she deposited Shane in the bassinet without worry. She didn’t dare hook up his food and saline by herself; Nuala, still drinking tea, would have to do that herself.

“Stay here,” Thranduil ordered, gently laying down Saoirse.

“Yeah, _nope_ ,” she said, already heading for the door. It was best he learn this lesson now.

“ _Lorna_ ,” he snapped, caching her up in three strides.

She turned, and arched an eyebrow. “Thranduil, d’you _really_ want to have this out in front’v an audience?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Mick called.

“Shut it,” she said, looking at him. “The only people who could be out there in weather like this are my gran and those bloody Americans. I’ll not let you go by yourself and scare the bloody life out’v them.” Which he would. He totally and completely would.

His only answer was a glare, and while that would have quailed most people, she was not one of them. She knew him too well. With her, if with no one else, he was all bark and no bite.

So she turned on her heel and headed for the door again, quite certain he’d start giving out at her as soon as they were away from their audience.

And sure enough, she was right. They were passing through the mossy roots of two mammoth trees when he said, “Lorna, I cannot allow you to do this.”

She sent him a glower as frigid as the air outside. “Let me make one thing crystal bloody clear, Thranduil Oropherion: you have no say at all in what I do – or do not – do. I’ll have no more talk at all about ‘allowing’ _anything_. I swore once I got out’v gaol that nothing and no one would control me ever again, and it’s not a vow I’ll break. And you’d best wrap your head around that now.”

He looked genuinely startled by the vehemence in her tone, and she didn’t wonder why. She’d never spoken to him of her time in prison, but clearly she was going to have to, once she actually had a chance.

“Lorna, I am only trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection,” she growled. She was being unreasonable, and even she knew it, but he’d struck a very sore point with her. She’d run across far too many people in her life who though she was helpless solely because she was tiny and female, and while most of those people had been trying to hurt her, a few had thought she belonged in a box, surrounded by cotton wool.

None of this was at all Thranduil’s fault, but her temper was rising, and she never had been able to stem it once it started.

“Lorna, you are _Edain_ ,” he insisted.

“And whoever’s out there is _also_ Edain,” she snapped. “I am not a doll, Thranduil. You do not get to put me in a box because you _think_ something might be dangerous. Unless it’s the Thing from the Black Lagoon, I’ll be _fine_.”

“But Lorna, you are _tiny_ ,” he snapped in return.

She halted, the blood draining from her face, and very carefully counted to ten. “Just this once, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” she said flatly. “I suggest you never say it again. I’ve put humans as big as you in hospital. I. Will. Be. _Fine_.” She stomped on again without waiting for a response.

Thranduil made the extreme tactical mistake of grabbing her shoulder, and she nearly, oh so _very_ nearly punched him for it. Lorna was not going to be an abusive wife, but he was making that incredibly difficult.

“Thranduil,” she said, her voice extremely strained, “you’d best move that hand, before I do something I’ll regret later.” _Don’t hit him don’t hit him don’t hit him_. She loved this man – Elf. She did _not_ want to punch him. She was not going to be her da, no matter how provoked she was.

“Do you want to strike me, Lorna?” he asked, curiosity joining the anger in his tone.

She shrugged off his hand, turning to look at him. “If you were anyone else, I already would’ve,” she said, trying valiantly to force her blood pressure down. “Twice. I don’t want to be my da, Thranduil, but you’re making that very had.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, brow furrowing.

“I’ll not be a spouse beater,” she said. “I know I couldn’t actually hurt you, but it’s the principle’v the thing. But the more you provoke me, the harder that is, so _stop_.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Hit me,” he ordered.

“What? No!” she said, appalled. “Did you not hear anything I just told you? I’m not my da. I’m not going to _be_ my da. Once we’ve dealt with this, I’ll tell you why.”

“Why _not_?” he demanded.

“Because I don’t punch people I love!” she snarled. “I’ve done some shite things in my life, but there’re a few that’re still beneath me.”

Thranduil blinked, looking totally thrown. “You love me?” he asked softly.

“ _Yes_ , you bloody idiot, though at the moment I’m wondering _why_ ,” Lorna growled. “Now are we going to deal with this, or not? Because if you won’t, I will.”

She stalked off again, hands clenched so tight that even her blunt nails dug into her palms. _I am not Da_ , she told herself. _I am not Da._ She _wasn’t_ her da, and she wasn’t going to be, no matter how much Thranduil pissed her off.

\--

Thranduil was rather stunned, so much so that he at first couldn’t follow Lorna. That was perhaps the oddest confession of love he had ever heard of, but there was no mistaking the honesty in it. Only Lorna would display it by refusing to pummel him.

Eventually he did follow, struggling to process that. In truth, he hadn’t been sure she ever would truly love him, not as he loved her – and he’d only had to push her almost to the point of violence to admit that she did.

Such a strange, _strange_ woman he had married.

Wisely, he said nothing more, letting her work out her ire in her own way. She truly _did_ want to strike him, and he didn’t want to push her any more than he already had. The Edain of Eire had always been fabled for their tempers, and she was trying so hard to subsume hers that he didn’t want to make it more difficult.

“We must gather our cloaks,” he said at last. “Otherwise our search will be rather uncomfortable.”

Her expression softened a bit. “That it will. Have you got any manner’v coat closet, so we don’t have to go all the way back to the room?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said, “though nothing in it will remotely fit you. I am afraid you will be rather swamped by it.”

“I can live with that.”

The ‘closet’ was actually a small room, that had once held supplies for the Guard. One of his numerous, heavy grey velvet cloaks hung on a hook, alongside another of dark green. Lorna was indeed almost lost in it, but it would keep her warm. Hopefully the frigid air would help cool her temper.

When he opened the door, they found that the sun was finally shining, though the air remained bitterly cold. It dappled the snow with patches of gold where it pierced the bare branches, glittering like diamonds. A glance at the sky told him it was likely only a brief reprieve, however; more clouds loomed in the north.

The snow had piled up considerably since they were last out here; there had to be a good two feet now. It would pose him no problem, but Lorna would find it slow going. Thranduil was not, however, mad enough to suggest she let him carry her; he’d wait until she’d worn herself out trudging first.

“Bloody hell, this is gorgeous,” she said. The sun lit up the few strands of silver in her hair, the cold pinking her cheeks. “I never thought I’d see snow like this, let alone in a forest.”

“You may never again,” he said. “At least, not in _this_ forest. This is, I hope, a singular event.” It was just as well they could have no more children, if this was to be the result. “If you walk nearer the creek, it might be easier going – just don’t slip.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said. “Are we headed north, then?”

“We are, but we are in no hurry. If we do not find them, they will find us.” He shortened and slowed his stride as best he could, so that she need not flail after him.

Lorna loved him. That knowledge would hopefully keep him from murdering any of his unwanted visitors.

\--

Miranda hated snow.

It probably had a lot to do with growing up in Australia, where the stuff was practically unheard-of in most places. Oh, it was pretty, but it was a bitch to walk in, especially when it was this deep. Poor Julifer was having an even worse time than she was, cussing all the while.

So far as Miranda knew, no Gifted had entered Lord Thranduil’s forest since before the Obliteration – she couldn’t say no _human_ had, though, because the village had been totally, creepily empty, and she could think of nowhere else they could have gone but here.

That did not gel with what they knew of Lord Thranduil. He was a reclusive bastard – and after what he’d been through, she couldn’t blame him. What the hell could have induced him to invite the whole damn village home with him? She didn’t know, and that worried her. Maybe he’d gone crazy.

“What’s he like?” Julifer asked, huffing and puffing as she stomped her way through the snow. She was wrapped up in a big, purple overcoat that looked like it had been made of shag carpeting, and looked every bit as annoyed as Miranda felt.

“From all the records, he’s a complete bastard,” she said, “but those all come from the Obliteration, when he’d just lost most of his people. _Anyone_ would be a bastard. What he’s turned into since then, I have no idea.” She really hoped the fact that he’d (presumably) taken in the village meant he wasn’t a _total_ dick, because she didn’t fancy the idea of dealing with an immortal asshole. She also hoped they weren’t going to have to hunt the length and breadth of the forest to find him.

As luck had – or didn’t have – it, _he_ found _them._

The records didn’t say anything about what he looked like, but there was no way this man could be anyone else. He had to actually be a little taller than her, and she stood a full six-four, wrapped up in a cloak of silvery-grey velvet. Near as pale as the snow, his hair so blond it was almost white, but it was the eyes that really gave him away – too old and piercing to be a human’s, full of so much memory it was hard to look at them. This was a man who had looked into hell, and it had looked back.

Weirdly, he had a woman with him, and _she_ was very much human, a tiny slip of a creature with a mass of black hair that made her look a bit like Cousin It with a face. Her complexion was more like Julifer’s, though it was red from exertion, or cold, or both.

“It has been a very long time since any of your kind have entered my forest,” Lord Thranduil said, his voice deeper than Miranda would have thought, “but your arrival is not unexpected. Yes, I am afraid this storm is my fault. At least, I can find nothing else to blame it on.”

“What did you _do_?” Miranda asked bluntly.

He looked down at the little woman beside him. “I sired children,” he said. “This started the day after their birth.”

Well. Miranda hadn’t known what to expect, but it sure as hell wasn’t _that_.

“You may as well come with us,” he added. “It is too cold for you to have this discussion out here.”

“We’ll have early lunch,” the woman said. “But if you touch my children, I’ll rip your arm off and shove it up your arse.”

Somehow, tiny though she was, Miranda believed her.

\--

Lorna’s anger was muted quite a bit, simply by the sheer ludicrousness of their visitors. She hadn’t been expecting an Australian Amazon and a woman who looked like she’d skinned Barney to make herself coat. They couldn’t have been more of a contrast if they’d tried – and they both seemed to be having almost as much trouble with the snow as she was.

“Where the hell are they from?” she asked quietly, grabbing Thranduil’s arm to steady herself.

“I know not what they call themselves now,” he said. “The remnants of the Gifted watch over the world, however few they are in number. This would have been a beacon to them. They will question us, glower at us, and return home with tales of my halls. I admit, after all this time, I am surprised they remember I exist. I thought I would be a mere footnote by now.”

Behind them, the Australian woman snorted. “The last of the Eldar, a footnote? It’s true not _many_ know of you, but you’re hardly forgotten. You did us too much good for us to actually forget you.”

“In the Obliteration?” Lorna asked.

“He _told_ you about that?” the other woman asked. She didn’t sound quite like the first – New Zealand, maybe?

“Well, I _did_ marry him, even though I didn’t know that was what I was doing at first,” Lorna said, elbowing him in the ribs. “I know he’s not told me everything yet, but he’s told me some. He told all’v us about the Obliteration, actually.”

“Lord Thranduil, do you _really_ have the entire village of Lasgaelen in your home?” the Australian asked.

Though she couldn’t see him, Thranduil smirked. “It is not as though they take up much space. I imagine I could fit most of your kind in here, too. Tell me, what do you know of my home?”

“Nothing,” the other woman said. “As far as we know, you never let any of us in it.”

“No,” he sighed, smirk fading, “I did not. And I should have.”

“From what little record we have, you lost most of your people, too,” the Australian said. “And our records really are alarmingly few. We need to know what you know, Lord Thranduil. Sharley says you’ve fucked up more things than you realize.”

“Who the hell his Sharley?” Lorna asked, immediately defensive.

“Sharley’s…Sharley. She’s not a precog, but she knows things, and occasionally stops by to let us know. According to her, Lord Thranduil’s thrown the future off-course, though of course she wouldn’t tell us _how_. Just that things were coming, and now they’ve not coming right.”

Lorna just barely resisted the urge to say, _That’s what she said._ She felt rather proud that she’d managed it.

“Did you have any idea this would happen?” Purple Coat asked.

“No,” Thranduil said, a little irritably, “I did not. And I do not see how I could have been expected to. It is not as though this was ever a regular occurrence at the birth of Eldar children.”

“Either way, you’ve released an epic amount of magic,” Purple Coat said. “The Trees are working overtime – and there are other people who are going to notice. You might get visitors you don’t want. Visitors like us, just…nasty.”

Thranduil halted, turning to face them. “Are you going to be terribly cross with me if I kill them?”

“ _Thranduil_ ,” Lorna said.

“Lorna, you do not understand how dangerous the more powerful Gifted can be. While they pose no threat to _me_ , your village almost literally sits on my doorstep. _You_ could all be in very great danger.”

Amazon sighed. “If you do, I’m gonna have to pretend to be pissed, for form’s sake, but no. We don’t kill our own people, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t a few I wouldn’t mind seeing dead.”

“D’you kill _my_ people?” Lorna asked.

“Some do,” Amazon said. “Those would be the ones I wouldn’t mind seeing dead. Lord Thranduil, if any of us come sniffing around here with an intent to do harm, you have my full blessing to kill them – just don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“How many of you even are there?” Lorna asked.

“A few hundred thousand, all told. Ever since the Obliteration, we’ve had a hard time having kids, and most of the ones we _do_ have are normal people like you. Sometimes they stay with us, but mostly they move out into the outside world.” She looked at Thranduil. “Sharley said your little snowstorm might shift that, though of course she didn’t say why, or how. Don’t have any more kids.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Lorna muttered. “Going through that once was more than enough.”

“Good. You’re so tiny I’m surprised you managed to get through it even once,” Amazon said.

Lorna wanted to be pissed, but she had a point. A very good point.

\--

Julifer wasn’t going to lie – the height difference between Lord Thranduil and his wife was so great that she wondered how conceiving their children had even _worked._ Especially if certain things were corresponding in size.

Yeah, she was just a bit of a pervert.

She was also, at the moment, freezing, in spite of their trek. The isolated bit of New Zealand she’d grown up in just didn’t get this cold, ever; snow was a rarity, and it never reached this level. She’d thought her bulky coat would be enough, but nope. Even with her gloves, her fingers were going numb, the frigid air stinging her face. It was beautiful, but she’d rather be viewing it through a window, with a nice hot mug of cocoa and Bailey’s. She really hoped Lord Thranduil’s house, wherever it was, had decent heating.

She really didn’t know what to make of him. Julifer hadn’t realized anything not human had survived the Obliteration, but according to Miranda, he was the only known person to have a natural immunity to the plague. And nobody, including him, knew why.

She also said he probably had no idea how much protection they’d given him over the centuries. There was a reason Lasgaelen had never turned into a city, and it wasn’t wholly his influence. A lot of the Gifteds’ normal descendants had worked actively – if quietly – to keep newcomers away. People from the outside sometimes married in, but enough children left when they grew up that the population mostly stayed balanced. He likely had no clue, which was just how they liked it.

He lived in his forest, cut off from a world that had passed him by – until now. What had caused him to change so drastically? Why, after all this time, had he gone and married a human? Had he lost his mind? He seemed lucid enough, but Julifer didn’t know a damn thing about Eldar, aside from the fact that they were immortal. And that he was the last one.

She was almost pathetically grateful when they reached a massive wooden door – a door that led underground. She followed him through it with no small amount of trepidation, and her eyes widened.

“Holy _shit_.”

\--

Truth be told, Thranduil quite enjoyed watching the reactions of newcomers to his home. He had lived here for so long that it held no sense of wonder for him, but it clearly did for every single Edain that set foot in it. It pleased him more than it likely should have.

“If you will follow me,” he said. “Whatever you must say might as well be said in front of the village, and save me the trouble of explaining later.”

“We don’t usually talk about this stuff in front of normals,” the tall blonde woman said.

He turned to her, arching an eyebrow. “These people might not be Gifted, but trust me, they are far from normal.”

Lorna snorted, choking on a laugh. “You’ve got that right,” she muttered, shrugging out of her cloak.

They moved through the glow of lanterns and the sunlight of a bygone age, and he watched them both from the corner of his eye. The blonde woman was very obviously a warrior – everything in her bearing told him she had actually seen combat, of some manner or another.

The other woman, the one with the hideous coat, was most definitely not a warrior, but she had to be some kind of aide. While her accent was mostly foreign to him, there was something in it that was almost familiar, and he suspected she must have grown up near an abandoned Eldar settlement.

What their Gifts were, he could not tell. He never had been able to. Not that it mattered a great deal right now.

He wondered if they knew about Bridie.

\--

While the dining hall as a whole wasn’t overly warm, a large brazier had been set up beside the most-used table. Shannon, Lorna found, had taken over twin-duty, tickling them with a long feather she’d found God knew where. Her green cast was by now mostly black, having been scribbled all over with Sharpie – signatures and sticky figures, mostly, and what looked like a game of noughts and crosses.

“All right, you lot, we’ve got visitors,” Lorna said. “And no, they’re not the bad sort. They already know what’s going on.”

That didn’t stop nearly every pair of eyes in the room narrowing. They really _were_ protective of their resident Elf.

“She speaks truth,” Thranduil said. “These are two of the descendants of the Gifted who survived the Obliteration.”

Unsurprisingly, that sent a murmur of curiosity through the crowd. “What do they want?” Old Orla demanded. She was sitting not at the table, but on it, with her knitting bag beside her and a deep green scarf long enough for the Fourth Doctor on her lap.

“They think Thranduil and I fucked something up when we had kids,” Lorna said, hopping up beside her. She wasn’t about to admit it to anyone, but all that walking had left her abdomen rather sore. Doc Barry was going to chew her out later.

The smaller woman looked rather nonplussed, but the tall one didn’t look like _anything_ could throw her. Her age was hard to guess, but she had to be older than she looked, if she had any kind of authority among her people. Her eyes were the most hectic, alarming blue Lorna had ever seen, and her skin was almost as pale as Thranduil’s.

“My name is Miranda Black,” she said. “I’m head of the Department of Magical Affairs.”

“Whose department?” Big Jamie asked. “What government?”

“ _Every_ government, even if most of them don’t know it. This storm’s caused by magic that got kicked off by the birth of those kids, and we’re worried about what else it might be – Julifer, get back here.”

The woman in the purple coat had drifted over to the bassinet, and her expression had promptly melted. “Miranda, these are the cutest damn babies I have ever seen.”

“I’m sure they are, but drool later.”

“Oh, fine.” Julifer scowled, but returned to Miranda’s side.

“What do you mean, ‘what else’?” Mick asked. Christ, it wasn’t even close to noon and he already had an empty lager can beside him.

“We don’t know,” Miranda said, and didn’t sound at all happy about the admission. “We’re going to have to send some people here to check up on things occasionally, but I’ll give you their ID’s, so you know who they are. Bridie can deal with them, if she’s still alive.”

Lorna froze. “Bridie?” she repeated. “What’s my gran got to do with this?”

The pair exchanged a glance. “If you’re her granddaughter, I’m surprised she didn’t tell you,” Miranda said. “She’s one of us.”

\--

Since the sun was out, the Americans had trekked back to the village to get the rest of their things. As much as Bridie didn’t want to do it, she was officially out of firewood – they had to go to Lord Thranduil’s.

She packed her own luggage, which was simple enough: spare clothes,, and all her pills. She also carefully put the wedding dress back into its plastic garment bag, figuring it could finish airing out in a larger space. If Lorna saw it, perhaps she’d be inclined to wear it sooner. She was human, damn it all, and she’d be married in the human way, or Bridie would know why not.

She was shrugging into her coat when she saw two _new_ strangers go by, trudging through the sparkling snow: two women, one the size of a giant and the other wearing the most hideous coat Bridie had ever seen. How in god’s name had they got out here, and _why_? Lasgaelen was the arse-end of nowhere, and there was so much snow on the ground they must have come driving a plow. If they were eejits like Bryan and Jennifer, they were damn dedicated eejits.

Well. If nothing else, this ought to get interesting.

She had plenty of time to wait and kick her heels until the Americans returned, so she tidied up the cottage. She had no worry at all that she’d be able to find Lord Thranduil’s home in all that forest, because she’d always been able to find things. Anything. No matter what it was, or where.

She’d been told more than once that it was a gift. People always wondered why she laughed.

Two people had come to her, nearly sixty years go – two people like her. Oh, they didn’t have the _same_ ability, but each had one. They’d given her a card with a phone number, and asked her to notify them of any emergencies or major changes in the area. They were, they said, as interested in keeping Lord Thranduil a secret as the village was.

She still had the card, though she’d only had to use it twice. She wouldn’t be terribly surprised if this new pair were from that group as well, simply because she had no idea why anyone else would go to the trouble of getting here through all this snow. They _could_ simply be another duo of nutters like Jennifer and Bryan, but Bridie doubted it.

She wrapped her scarf around her neck and put on her gloves, checking to make sure her braid was securely pinned in place. The mercury in her thermometer was at the bottom of the bulb, and she wondered us how much longer this cold could last.

The American came flailing through the snow, each dressed in probably half the clothes they had brought, bearing an assortment of bags. Jesus, how much had they traveled with? She hoped they wouldn’t mind lugging it a few more miles, since she couldn’t exactly help them.

She plunged out into the snow herself, ancient suitcase firmly in hand, and locked the door behind her out of sheer habit.

“Did you bring everything you own on this trip?” she asked, eying them.

Bryan laughed. “It looks like more than it is. Ma’am, I’ll take that,” he said, holding out his gloved hand for her suitcase.

Whoever said Americans were rude had obviously never met these two. They might be a pair of fools, but no one could say they weren’t polite.

“Thank you, young man,” she said, handing it over. “We’ve a long walk ahead. I’ve done up some sandwiches for when we take a rest. Remember, you two – no pictures. And Jennifer, you’d best have that stone handy, to put it back.”

“I do,” the girl said, patting the pocket of her green coat. “This – even if we can never tell anyone, this will be amazing.”

“It might be even more interesting than you think,” Bridie muttered.

She looked toward the village, and shut her eyes in silent pain – yet another figure was flailing through the snow.

“Oh, for Christ’s _sake_ ,” she groaned.

“Mrs. Monaghan?” it called. “Is that you?”

Well, at least this one had to be a former local, even if she didn’t recognize him right off – a tall man, middle fifties, swathed in a brown coat that made him look like nothing so much as a bear.

“’Tis,” she said. “Who’s asking?”

“Andrew Corcoran,” he said. He was huffing and puffing like anything, his face alarmingly red. “I came to warn you there’s someone else that knows’v Lord Thranduil, and he’ll be on his way by now, I’m sure.”

Bridie groaned. “He’ll have to join the queue,” she said. “Lord Thranduil’s going to bloody _love_ this. You might as well come along with us. He’s got the whole village with him already.”

Andrew blinked. “He _does_?”

“It’s a long story,” she said blandly. “You may as well come along. At this rate we’ll have half the bloody county with us before long.”

\--

Colin was amazed he’d reached Lasgaelen in one piece.

He’d purchased something called tire chains, which he’d never actually heard of before, and practiced putting them on. Even with them, though he’d nearly wrecked four times before he reached the village.

And found a ghost town.

Not a single business was open, and he got no response at all when he shouted. Nobody answered at any of the houses he knocked on, either. It was as if every single person had disappeared into thin air.

In spite of the bright sun, he shivered, and not from cold. Unbidden, images of zombies and serial killers entered his mind, and he wished he had anything remotely resembling a weapon.

There _were_ foot prints, though – or rather, foot trails, since walking in over four feet of snow was beyond a bitch. He followed them, for lack of anything better to do, squinting against the bright glare of the sunlight glittering off the snow. The tracks, he found, headed straight into the forest, and at first he hesitated to follow them – but if others had been willing to go in before him, it couldn’t be _that_ dangerous.

He drew a deep breath, the glacial air burning in his lungs, and stepped into the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Thranduil. Poor, poor Thranduil. His days of being a recluse are pretty much over.
> 
> Title means “Visitors” in Irish. As always, reviews give me hope and sparkles.


	12. Ceann Cluichí

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which poor Colin is dealt with, Miranda is contemplative, and Lorna and Thranduil have a much-needed conversation.

Lorna insisted Miranda and Julifer stay for lunch, though it turned out they knew no more about her gran – just that Gran was one of them.

 _Mairead_ wasn’t best pleased by that. She downed a full pint of Guinness in five minutes, scowling all the while. “Why wouldn’t she tell us?” she demanded. “She bloody raised me!”

“Most of us keep our Gifts a secret,” Julifer said. “It prevents…misunderstandings. Could you have kept it a secret, if you’d known about it as a kid?”

That took a bit of the wind out of Mairead’s ire. “Well, no, but in this village it wouldn’t’ve mattered. We all grew up knowing there was an Elf next door – magic isn’t so hard a concept to swallow here.”

“I believe you will get the chance to ask her yourself, Mistress Mairead,” Thranduil said. He was cradling little Shane, who he carefully laid back in the bassinet. “There are five more people in my forest, and I would be very surprised if one of them is not her. Did the pair of you come alone, Mistress Miranda, or should I be expecting yet more company like you?” he added, a little waspishly. 

Miranda and Julifer exchanged a glance. “It’s just us,” Miranda said. “Anybody else isn’t _our_ fault.”

“If the Americans were here when the snow hit, they might be with Gran,” Lorna said. “I’ve got no idea about the other two – unless somebody at the hospital got curious, and was mad enough to try to come out here.” Her obstetrician had certainly seemed too curious for his own good.

The shift in Thranduil’s expression was, quite honestly, a little terrifying. Never, ever had she seen him look so very cold, so, well, _inhuman_. The grace with which he stood was inhuman, too, and she wasn’t the only one who eyed him warily.

“Thranduil,” she said – half question, half warning. “You can just tweak his mind, right? You don’t have to do anything…worse.” That was half-question, too; she still only had a vague idea of just what powers he truly had.

“I can,” he affirmed, his tone as frigid as his eyes. “I think this time I must ask you to come with me, Firieth Dithen.”

“Why?” she asked, even as she hopped off the table.

“To make certain I do not do, as you say, something worse.”

Lorna cast a glance at Mairead before following him – her sister looked as disturbed as she felt. “Thranduil, what’ve you got in mind?” she asked, hurrying to match his long stride. He might as well have been carved of stone, for all the animation in his face, but his eyes were the worst. She’d never seen such glacial chill, not in anyone. 

“Your grandmother is welcome,” he said. “Even those two Americans I will tolerate, for they are little more than children, and harmless enough, even if they _are_ complete fools. The others – I will not allow anyone from the outside world to know of this place, Lorna. No, I will not kill them, but nor does that mean I will let them _leave_.”

Well, it was better than straight-up murdering them, but not by a hell of a lot. “You’re just going to lock them up in here somewhere?” she asked, before grabbing his sleeve and tugging on it. “You’ve got to slow down a bit, allanah – I’m taking three steps for your every one.” Already she was halfway out of breath, for all she’d not had a cigarette in six months.

Slow he did, and the harshness of his profile softened a fraction. It was only a fraction, however. “I might,” he said. “I have dungeons, though they have not been used in millennia. You do understand how dangerous it would be, for word of our home to spread among the outside world?”

“Oh, I know,” she sighed. “And if it’s that doctor’v mine, I’d love to wring his neck, but that doesn’t mean I can actually _do_ it. It’s the modern world, Thranduil. You can’t just lock him up and throw away the key – somebody’ll file a Missing Person’s report sooner or later, even if he hasn’t got any close family. That would raise questions we really don’t want raised. Just…scramble his mind a bit, and send him on his way. It’s what you’ve always done, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he said, pausing to look at her, “but until now, the consequences of failure were never dire. Before you, it had been centuries since anyone not from this village had wandered into my forest. That foolish couple, and now these other interlopers – they are strangers, Lorna. And we have children to protect.”

Lorna rubbed her forehead. She already had a headache coming on. “I know,” she said. “If it _is_ my doctor, just wonk his memory about. I mean, he _did_ deliver the twins safely. We do kind’v owe him.” She didn’t know a great deal about C-sections, but she was pretty sure that, with babies that premature, a whole load of things could have gone disastrously wrong. Yes, his curiosity now was a gigantic pain in the arse, but he’d made certain they had two healthy (if tiny) children to run away with. They couldn’t go discounting that.

Now it was Thranduil who sighed. “I wish you did not have a point.”

“Yeah, well, me too,” she said. “This fifth person – let’s just do the same, shall we? If he’s brought a friend, they’ll both get a mental whammy and then they can toddle off home.”

His expression still made her nervous. It didn’t take a mind reader to see that part of Thranduil wanted to kill them ad have done with it, but she trusted him not to act on it. He’d never given her any indication he lacked self-control, so she was going to _keep_ trusting him. He was, after all, six thousand years old.

“Very well,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

\--

Bridie wasn’t surprised the other three were jumpy as all hell, but strangely, she wasn’t. Perhaps it was because she’d lived all her life within sight of the forest; the outside of it was so familiar that the interior held no fears.

Andy Corcoran clearly didn’t share the sentiment. It was no wonder she hadn’t recognized him – she’d not seen him since he was eighteen, just before he left for Trinity.

“You’ll give yourself a heart attack,” she said. “Will you not relax? Everybody else is in here. It’s not like we’re trespassing.”

“ _We_ are,” Jennifer said nervously.

“You’re with me,” Bridie said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s that Colin that’ll be in trouble, if he shows his face. If he turns up, he’ll be leaving with a brain like a scrambled egg.”

“He has, I think, turned up.”

Even Bridie twitched, and Jennifer let out a short, aborted shriek, staggering in the snow. Lord Thranduil had appeared from behind a tree, with Lorna seated on his shoulders like a child.

“He is somewhere behind you,” he added. “You two I know –” he pointed at Bryan and Jennifer “—but who is _he_?”

“That’s Andy Corcoran,” Bridie said, saving the poor man having to answer. “He’s a local. He came back to warn you about this other eejit.”

“I don’t know how he even got here,” Andy said, a little faintly. “I had to hitch a ride on a snowplow, and walk the rest of the way.”

“He’s not just an eejit, he’s a nutter,” Lorna muttered.

“Apparently,” Lord Thranduil sighed. “Follow the tracks, Mistress Bridie. You’ll find my front door easily enough.”

“Yeah, but can she open it?” Lorna asked.

“No, but this will not take long.”

Bridie decided to pretend there wasn’t anything sinister in that sentence.

\--

In spite of the creepy, empty village – in spite of his aching legs and burning lungs – Colin was glad he’d come.

He’d been on hikes in national parks, but they had nothing on this place – these huge trees were beyond ancient, like towers in a fairytale. He’d been snapping away with his digital camera almost as soon as he’d set foot among them, his fingers so numb he almost couldn’t feel the buttons.

This wasn’t fairyland as he’d ever heard of it in folklore. It was old and deep, and powerful in a way he could put no name to. The only delicate things to be seen were the shadows of the bare branches on the snow, veining the sparkling white.

It was completely silent, but that wasn’t terribly surprising; snow did tend to muffle just about everything. The air was breathless and still – far too still for anywhere in Ireland, really. Unnatural. Then again, perhaps nothing counted as ‘unnatural’ in the forest of an Elf. He really ought to have brought someone with him, to share the experience, but at the same time, he was glad he hadn’t.

That thought lasted until he found his quarry. Or rather, until it found him.

Looking at the man – or whatever he was – Colin wondered how he _ever_ could have mistaken him for human. Swathed in grey velvet, his silvery hair free, his piercing, arctic eyes locked on Colin with an inhuman intensity. Inhuman, and _hostile_.

Colin might just have pissed himself if Donovan hadn’t appeared at her boyfriend’s side, giving his cloak a tug. Their height difference really was ludicrous, but at least her presence seemed to diffuse a little – a very little – of his palpable ire.

“You’ve gone and stepped in it now,” she said to Colin. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but his voice was nowhere to be found. And really, what _could_ he say? She was right; he couldn’t stay away.

“The question, doctor,” her boyfriend said, with a certain arrogant tilt of his head, “is what am I to do with you now? I cannot let you leave, even with the very little you know.”

Colin’s heart plummeted into his stomach, stark terror flooding his veins. Some dim part of him knew he ought to run, but he wouldn’t get far – not when faced with an opponent who was somehow standing on _top_ of the snow.

“He’ll not kill you,” Donovan said, with something approximating gentleness, “even if you _are_ a bloody eejit. You’ve got to come with us, though, and it’s in your best interest to do it voluntarily. I can’t promise he won’t break something if you don’t.”

Her boyfriend gave her a very dry look, but worryingly, he didn’t protest.

Colin swallowed hard, stepping toward them, and nearly jumped out of his skin when the man/whatever-he-was snatched his camera out of his hand and _crushed_ it. Actually, legitimately crushed it, dropping the plastic shards onto the snow. Sweet bloody Jesus, how strong _was_ he? He could probably snap Colin’s neck with one hand.

“Show-off,” Donovan muttered.

“It was necessary,” he retorted.

“I’m sure it was, Thranduil,” she said dryly. “I’m sure it was.”

“What – um, what are you going to do with me?” Colin stammered.

“I do not yet know,” Thranduil said, grabbing Colin’s shoulder and shoving him ahead of them. “As Lorna reminded me, we do have you to thank for the twins’ safe entrance into the world, so I will not harm you Despite the fact that you wanted to turn my children into – what did you call it, Lorna? Lab rats?”

“Got it in one. For your sake, Doctor, I hope you’ve not told anyone else about that,” she added sternly.

Colin swallowed. “Just Doctor Corcoran,” he said. “He grew up here. He told me to burn the paperwork, and I did.” It had been an agonizing decision, but he’d done it.

“At least you’re not _completely_ daft,” Donovan said.

Colin was too out-of-breath to respond. He’d fancied himself in decent shape, but he had to have gone well over a mile in three feet of snow already. At this rate, he’d happily drop dead, and save this Thranduil the effort.

Mercifully, it wasn’t much longer before they caught up with the other group, who were actually sitting in the snow eating sandwiches in front of the a very large door.

“All right, you lot,” Donovan said, as Thranduil opened it. “In you go.”

\--

Though Miranda hadn’t been given permission to wander Lord Thranduil’s halls, she wandered anyway, assessing. 

Normally she was almost entirely indifferent to aesthetics, but even she had to admit the place was beautiful. More importantly, however, it was practically a perfect stronghold.

Once upon a time, there had been millions of Eldar, with settlements all over the world. So far as she knew, nobody had ever explored the remnants, but if any of them were like _this_ , they might prove damn useful.

The DMA inhabited a pocket dimension, discovered by the Gifted so long ago that nobody actually knew just how long they’d been living there. Having bases on Earth could only be a good thing, even if they would hopefully never _need_ them.

It wasn’t something she would ask Lord Thranduil about just yet, because he might get offended by the mere idea. She’d see if they could find one on their own first, and see if it could be salvaged after a few thousand years of neglect. Because if Sharley was right – and she usually was – they _were_ going to need it. It, and everything else they could get their hands on.

She wished more of the Eldar had stayed. Yeah, all the records had said most of them had some level of superiority complex, but when you literally lived forever, it would be hard not to. Their magic wasn’t like that of the Gifted, but it seemed to have been no less useful.

At least there was Lord Thranduil – though honestly, he seemed a touch weird, presumably even for an Elf. The way he moved was a little…off, and not just because it was too smooth to be human. His expressions, when he watched people – there was a peculiar curiosity there, like an anthropologist studying a foreign culture, which Miranda supposed he sort of was. If he’d really been shut away from the world for a thousand years, it had probably come as a massive shock.

And then there were his eyes. The fact that he rarely blinked might not be _that_ weird, since he wasn’t human, but they were always open so wide that she wondered if he had vision problems. Rajit, one of the DMA’s electropaths, was partially blind in one eye, and he did pretty much the same thing. It wasn’t exactly something she could _ask_ about, but she wondered anyway.

Once she and Julifer went home, she’d send some teams out to see if they could locate any abandoned Eldar strongholds. It was worth a shot.

\--

As much as Thranduil wanted to throw this exasperating man in the dungeon, he thought it might be far more entertaining to leave him to the not-so-tender mercies of the villagers. The other foreigners had come with Bridie, and thus would receive a measure of protection, but the healer was not so fortunate. Thranduil suspected the Americans were only still here because the weather had trapped them, but the healer had to have actively fought his way through the snow.

He seemed to terrified to be properly in awe of his surroundings, but the Americans weren’t. It was difficult to be as annoyed with them when they were so clearly amazed, almost childlike in their sheer delight. Not impossible, for they really _were_ aggravating, but slightly more difficult.

Even Bridie looked impressed, try though she did not to show it. Her blue eyes darted here and there, taking in everything, but she said nothing.

“Oh, go on and gawk, Gran,” Lorna said. “The rest’v us did. It’ll not kill you.”

“Whisht, you. I’ll gawk once I’ve seen your sprogs, and can put my feet up.”

Lorna snorted. “Gran, you’re impossible to impress,” she said. “You really are.”

“It’s not _impossible_ ,” Bridie retorted, with no small amount of asperity. “It’s just bloody difficult. I’ve brought your wedding dress, for whenever you’ll be needing it.”

Lorna’s eyes narrowed, her jaw clenching, but she said nothing, and Thranduil thought he could guess why. Even if she loved him, she wasn’t about to be railroaded into marriage by anyone. Especially since she’d still so recently lost her first husband. They had gone about things rather backward, but she wasn’t going to marry him just because they had children – nor did he want her to. If she ever came to regret it, he did not know what he would do. She had to be sure.

And he was in no hurry. Thranduil was hardly desperate for carnal affection; Lorna could take as long as she liked. He had her, and he had the twins. And the village. And, at the moment, three people who did _not_ belong here.

Fortunately, they were not solely his problem.

\--

Colin had thought Thranduil was terrifying, but this village was certainly giving him a run for his money.

He’d been brought to some kind of dining hall, a vast room of dark stone carved to look like a grove of trees. In here, the walls looked like they were inlaid with quartz, or some other shiny rock, glittering in the lantern-light. It held around three hundred people, all human – and every single one of them gave him a raging stink-eye as soon as Donovan told them who he was.

It wasn’t fair. The Americans were getting a bit of it, too, but not half so much as him. They hovered near the little old lady, who seemed to be almost like some kind of shield.

“I did try to warn you,” Doctor Corcoran said, sitting at the one long table that was actually occupied, and dragging Colin to sit with him. “Why in God’s name could you not leave it alone?”

“A very good question,” Thranduil drawled. “Please, enlighten us.”

Colin swallowed. “I just…I had to know,” he said, his voice surprisingly small as he rubbed at the hem of his shirt. “I wanted to know if there was really something – something _more_.” He hadn’t been a particularly imaginative child, nor was he an imaginative adult; the idea that anything supernatural could be _real_ was not one he had ever entertained.

“You wanted to run tests on my children,” Thranduil said flatly, his tone as glacial as his eyes. “And what, precisely, would you have done with the results?”

Honestly, Colin hadn’t thought that far ahead, because he hadn’t been totally convinced there wasn’t some rational explanation. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“We’ve got people who can fuck with his memory, if you like.” The offer came from a massively tall Australian woman, who was looking at him with even deeper disapproval than the others. Who the hell was _she_?

Thranduil smirked. “I can take care of that myself, Mistress Miranda, though I thank you.”

Colin felt suddenly lightheaded.

\--

As annoyed as Lorna was at the obstetrician, she couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. She had to remind herself that, even with innocent intentions, he could have got her, Thranduil, and the twins in a hell of a lot of trouble. He obviously hadn’t paused to consider the potential consequences of coming out here, and she doubted he would have hesitated to poke other doctors until someone took him seriously. No, she didn’t think he meant any harm, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have caused it. Maybe a lot of it.

“We’ll not drive you _mad_ or anything,” she said, grabbing a can of lager from the end of the table and moving to press it into his hand. Seated, he was actually a little shorter than her, his dark eyes wide in his pale face. “You did make sure our kids survived being born. But you can’t be allowed to remember any’v this.”

“Will it hurt?” he asked.

“No,” she said, and hoped she was telling the truth. She doubted Elf-magic was anything actually malicious, so she probably was. “Thranduil’s not a monster, Doctor, but he _is_ a da, and you’re a threat to his kids, whether you mean to be or not.”

“What about you?” he asked, his hands trembling as he popped the tab on the can.

Lorna snorted. “ _I’d_ happily knock your teeth out for being a bloody eejit,” she said. “You’re not like the Americans – you were warned not to come here, and you came anyway. But we do owe you, so I won’t. But next time someone warns you not to do something, _listen_.”

Granted, she was a bloody hypocrite there. When she was young and stupid, as soon as someone had told her not to do something, she’d gone and done it. The difference was that she had been a stoned teenager, not a thirtysomething doctor who really ought to have known better.

She wondered how Thranduil’s magical mind-wipe worked. She probably ought to sit with this poor bastard when he did it, for reassurance if nothing else.

\--

Thranduil let the healer metaphorically twist in the wind until evening, mostly because he dare not attempt this while angry. Even now, he lacked Galadriel’s mental ability, and it would be all too easy to drive the man irreparably mad. _Thranduil_ wouldn’t mind that at all, but Lorna would. If he’d ever been as comparatively softhearted as her, he had long since forgotten it. A king, especially one in a world the way this one had been for so long, could not afford sentimentality.

And what a kingdom he had had, before the Edain migrated this way in any appreciable number. He did not often let himself think on it, for to do so would also force him to face just how much it – and he – had diminished. He was an artifact, a relic of a world long gone, lingering on the fringes. A king, yes, but a king of nothing.

Even now, his three hundred Edain were a far cry from the people he had once ruled. The truly glory of the Woodland Realm and its people was lost forever, vanished along with the bulk of Earth’s magic. In a way, he and the Gifted were akin to one another: they too were remnants. Yes, they still had a small society, but it was only a matter of time before they too died out.

If Thorvald ever managed to escape his prison, it would not take much time at all.

\--

This poor doctor was so obviously absolutely bloody terrified, and Lorna really didn’t know what to do. He was pale and sweaty and shivering – if he’d been older, she’d have feared for his heart.

He sat now in one of the pair of armchairs in Thranduil’s room, beside the bright warmth of the fire. She couldn’t at all blame him, but she was at a loss as to how to comfort him. Thranduil really did look exceptionally forbidding right now, his face expressionless as a marble statue. His black tunic didn’t help, since it contrasted so severely with his pale skin and icy eyes.

“He’s not going to eat you,” she told the doctor, and couldn’t help but add, “though he’s bloody good at it, when he’s got a mind to be.”

The innuendo obviously went right over the poor bastard’s head at first, but she knew when it clicked, for he blushed like a brick. Sheer embarrassment seemed to drain a little of his tension. Well, if _that_ worked….

“Seriously, don’t get me started on the things he can do with his tongue,” she went on, fighting a smirk. A very Thranduil-type smirk; clearly, he was a bad influence on her. “They shouldn’t be legal. And those fingers’v his…well. Making the twins was more fun than it probably ought to be.”

God, now he’d gone the color of an over-ripe apple. Was he – wait, was he _attracted_ to Thranduil? She was pretty sure he was. That actually explained one _hell_ of a lot. And it did seem to be distracting him, while Thranduil got ready to do whatever it was he needed to do.

“I was walking funny for a few days, mind you. I’m a bit on the tiny side, and he’s a bit, well, _not_. Makes for some residual soreness, if you get my meaning,” she said, waggling her eyebrows.

The doctor finally burst out laughing, and she smiled. “And let me tell you, trying to take a piss when your snatch is that sore is no picnic,” she added, barely able to keep a straight face herself.

“Lorna, you might just be the most vulgar creature I have ever met,” Thranduil said dryly, sitting in the chair opposite the doctor.

“Vulgarity has its uses,” she said, as primly as she could manage. “And you really did give me so much fodder.”

“I could have given you so much more,” he said, more dryly still. “Someday, I will.”

Oh. Well. Lorna was pretty sure she was actually incapable of blushing, but certain parts of her suddenly felt rather warm.

“Hold still, Doctor,” he ordered. “This will not hurt, but if you resist, it will be…unpleasant. For both of us.”

“Because that’s so very reassuring,” Lorna said, giving the man’s shoulder a squeeze.

“It is the truth,” Thranduil said, reaching out to touch the doctor’s face. “I mean it. Hold still.”

It was only about thirty seconds before the poor bastard had no choice – he passed out, slumping in his chair. Lorna braced him in place before he could actually fall to the floor, her stomach lurching. Thranduil hadn’t told her _that_ would happen, but he didn’t seem worried – just intent.

She’d known he could do this, but actually _watching_ it was, well, a little terrifying. Just how much power could he have over a person’s mind?

How much could he have over hers? How much had he _had_ over hers, the day they met?

He’d told her that his own desire had influenced her, but it had to be more than that. Lorna didn’t sleep with people she’d just met, no matter how attractive she found them. She just didn’t do it – she’d never wanted to. Even with Liam, she hadn’t actually _wanted_ to sleep with him until she’d fallen in love with him, yet she’d happily shagged Thranduil not fifteen minutes after she’d spoken with him.

 _Why?_ And why had she not wondered about it more deeply until now?

She didn’t know, and it unsettled her. It was something she had to ask him about, once she’d figured out how.

 _He laid her down, and did not ask her leave_ , she thought. When she and Liam had gone knocking about Britain, the bus had broken down in Selkirk just in time for a festival. The people had been surprisingly welcoming to their two Irish visitors, and the pair of them had eaten themselves sick, and listened to folk music under the stars. And only now did she realize that one of the ballads, _Tam Lin_ , eerily mirrored the last six months of her life.

Thranduil hadn’t exactly asked her leave. She knew he would never have hurt her if she’d actually protested, but _something_ had been going on in her mind, something that was most definitely not her doing. And her simply mirroring his desire couldn’t have been it, because it had been as if all her rationality and common sense had been taken completely offline. Not even booze or drugs had ever so thoroughly managed that.

The thought made her incredibly uncomfortable, and she was glad enough when Thranduil said he was finished. Since she couldn’t physically help him move the doctor, she left him to it, wandering out into the halls. 

She ought to go see to the twins, but she couldn’t handle dealing with half the bloody village right now. As much as she didn’t want to think about this, she rather had to, so she went for a walk, meandering aimlessly along one of the high walkways.

Thranduil had slept with her upon first meeting her, knowing that they would be married by the standards of his people. He’d apparently done a little stalking before then, but, not counting her song, they’d exchanged what, maybe a hundred words before he somehow charmed his way into her pants?

What, really, did he even _see_ in her? Lorna was fully aware there was nothing remarkable about her, unless he knew something she didn’t – which he just might. If so, though, he’d never shared it with her.

She had to ask him. She didn’t _want_ to, but she needed to know just what he’d done to her mind that day – and she needed to know why it had taken so long for her to properly wonder about it.

This, she knew, was not a conversation either of them would enjoy.

\--

Miranda and Julifer left after dinner, taking the unconscious doctor with them, promising they would drop him off at his flat. Thranduil was quite glad to be rid of him, for he had other troubles to stew over.

Lorna’s expression had gone very strange as she watched him work on the doctor’s mind, and then she’d scurried off as soon as she could. Clearly she’d been disturbed, and he supposed he couldn’t fault her for it, but he wished she would speak to him, not run. He somehow doubted she ran from much of anything.

There were only so many places she would be likely to go, and one in particular she’d told him was quite lovely. It was close to half a mile from the dining-hall, yet she still somehow beat him to it.

There were many waterfalls within the halls, but this one was exceptionally large, and stood beneath a fissure that let in shafts of silvery moonlight that glittered on the churning water. It fell into a wide, shallow pool before continuing on its way again, meandering through a stony channel in the floor. Huge sword ferns ringed the pool, and someone long ago had put an oak bench beside it. 

Lorna sat on the bench now, cross-legged, staring into the pool. The vastness of his halls made her seem even tinier than she already was. She was picking at the end of her braid, her expression as troubled as he felt.

“You will lose yourself, if you wander too far,” he said, approaching. “The women from the DMA took the doctor with them. They will see him safely home, and he will trouble us no more.”

She looked up, but though she gave Thranduil a half-smile, that was all she gave.

“What is wrong, Lorna?” he asked, making his way to the bench.

She hesitated, as if searching for words. “Thranduil,” she said at last, “the day we met, what did you _really_ do to my mind? Yes, you’re very pretty, but I don’t sleep with people I’ve just met. And why am I only now thinking about it, after all this time?”

Thranduil fought the urge to sigh. He should have seen this coming. “Lorna, I swear I did not consciously influence your mind,” he said. “Yes, influence it I did, but I did not do to you what I did to Doctor O’Donnell. There was no active will behind it.” He could not, however, claim he hadn’t known what he was doing. The fact that his desire had been altering her mind had been impossible to miss. “Why you are only thinking of it now, I do not know.”

 _That_ was perilously close to a bold-faced lie. No, he hadn’t outright done anything to her mind, but he knew well how distracting he could be, when he wished. And he had wished.

She drew her feet up onto the bench, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees – a defensive posture if ever he’d seen one. “Why did you _marry_ me?” she asked. “Tell me the truth, Thranduil. It can’t just be that I gave you a gift. That’s grounds for friendship, sure, but _marriage_? Yeah, you stalked me enough to know a little _about_ me, but you didn’t _know_ me at all. For all you could’ve known, I might’ve been an axe murderer, and you just up and married me, at least in your mind. _Why?_ ”

In truth, it was a question for which he did not fully have an answer – and she might not like the answer he _did_ have, for he didn’t know how to make it not sound slightly patronizing.

“Your eyes,” he said. “You have the eyes of an Elda, Lorna. Some of the Peredhel chose mortality, and intermarried among the Edain, but the fëa does not change.”

She looked incredibly dubious. “You married me because’v my creepy eyes?” she asked. “Because I _might_ have some really distant ancestor who was once an Elf? Thranduil, as reasons go, that’s still _really_ bloody stretching it.”

He paused. She wasn’t going to like this. At all. But he could not lie to her. Well, he _could_ , but he wouldn’t. He owed her the truth. “Do you remember how I told you that something was coming?” he asked.

Lorna nodded.

“It will involve you,” he said. “Of that I am sure. I think it will involve many people, but you will be among them. And I wanted to get to you before anyone else did. I knew that it might be you would want nothing more to do with me after that, our fëar touched, if only once.”

There was a healthy chance that would enrage her, for he knew what it sounded like. Thranduil halfway wished it would, for it would be better than her current expression, which looked disturbingly close to betrayed.

“I probably should’ve guessed it was something like that,” she said, after a long pause. “I mean, I’ve known all along it wasn’t because’v me as _me_ , because you didn’t _know_ me.”

She swung her feet to the ground, staring at her fuzzy purple socks. Her shoulders were hunched, elbows rested on her knees, and Thranduil had to fight the urge to reach out and touch her. She knew instinctively that she would not appreciate it just yet.

“Y’know,” Lorna said slowly, “me and Liam, we weren’t perfect, but he loved me for who I am, not who I _could_ be. D’you even actually love me, Thranduil, or do you just love whatever it is I represent to you?”

“Lorna, how can you ask that question?” he asked, appalled.

She looked at him. “You’re immortal, Thranduil,” she said. “Your people probably court for decades, and you’ve known me for six months. That might be enough time for a human to fall in live, but an Elf? I know you were lonely as fuck, but that doesn’t make it love.”

There was little he could say to that, for in a sense, she was right: no Elf should fall in love in so short an amount of time, but he had, and not just because he was so lonely – though that did, admittedly, play a part. And yes, he _did_ partly love her for who and what she _could_ be, but that was not the only reason why.

He reached for her hand, and was relieved that she didn’t pull away. “Lorna,” he said, “you are mortal. One day you will die, and be lost to me forever. Do you think I would do that to myself, if I did not think you worth it? There is a reason so few of my kind have married yours. We know that our hearts will be broken. I could have wiped your memory and sent you on your way the day you entered my forest. I didn’t because I saw _something_ in you, something I still cannot define. Whatever it is, I could not ignore it. I could not stay away from it. And in time, you and I will discover what it is.”

She still looked incredibly dubious, and really, he couldn’t blame her. It sounded like madness, but it was all he had. If there were further words to describe it, he hadn’t yet found them.

“I’m trusting you, Thranduil,” she said, giving his hand a slight squeeze. “I don’t do that easily, so don’t fuck that up, okay?”

“I will endeavor not to,” he said, rising, and drew her to her feet as well. “We ought to see to our children.”

She let him lead her along the path, but he was unfortunately certain this would not be the end of that conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Thranduil, it is indeed not the end of it, and you can’t exactly blame Lorna for it, either.
> 
> Title means “Mind Games” in Irish. As always, your reviews are the fuel to the engine of my brain. _Nyoom._


	13. Toradh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there are consequences for Grand Theft Ambulance, Thranduil screws up, and everyone goes home.

Declan Flanagan was not happy about this assignment, for all he’d asked for it.

He still had a bandage on his head, heavy white gauze. He didn’t know which of those two lunatics had brained him with the ambulance door, but they were both guilty of stealing the bloody thing.

The motorways were finally clear enough to let him and his partner take a panda car to Lasgaelen, so off they went. The sky was blue and clear as a sapphire, the sun glittering so brightly off the snow that he’d had to break out his sunglasses. Mad, this weather was, but at least it had cleared off, for now.

He dry-swallowed two Paracetamol, wondering if he should have taken the day off. His head was still killing him – a dull, thumping pain that could easily make him queasy if he let it. Knocked out in the snow as he’d been, he could have blood frozen to death. He was going to throw every charge at those two that he thought would stick.

There was little enough traffic in the way; even with the roads cleared, most were staying home unless they absolutely had to be somewhere else. It meant that they made good time to Lasgaelen; if they were lucky, they’d have their pair of miscreants back at the station in time for tea.

Or so he’d thought. When they reached Lasgaelen, they found a damn ghost town.

The streets here hadn’t seen a plow – the snow was smooth and unbroken, and over three feet deep. While it looked as though there were a few tracks through it, they were soft and sunken, filled in by new snowfall – not at all fresh. There wasn’t a light to be seen, even in the businesses; everywhere, the shades were drawn.

He glanced at Johnny, who was frowning with unease. Johnny had been on the force a good fifteen years longer than Declan, who hadn’t thought the man could _be_ uneasy. “Where first?” he asked.

“If anybody’s about, they’ll be in the pub,” Johnny said, though he didn’t sound confident at all. Adjusting his hat, he turned the car off and stepped out into the snow. They’d no choice but to walk from here.

The cold nearly stole Declan’s breath, though at least there wasn’t any breeze. Walking through all that snow was no picnic, and it didn’t help that they couldn’t tell the street from the pavements. It coated his trousers to the knee, a dusting of fine white powder that would soon enough melt from his body heat.

The ambulance, they found, had crashed into a light pole outside the surgery, and was as coated in snow as everything else; it had probably been there since the night it was stolen. The surgery itself was dead empty, the windows frosted like cataracts. He wasn’t surprised when nobody answered his knock.

The pub was equally deserted, locked up tight. He scraped some frost from the window with his gloved fingers, and found there was frost on the inside of the glass as well. It had to have sat unheated for at least two days, if not longer.

“What in bloody hell’s going _on_ here?” Johnny muttered. “We can’t call this back in. They’d think we were daft.”

“It’s the truth, though, innit?” Declan said, perturbed. “I mean, we’d best knock on a few houses, just to be sure, but I think the whole bloody village went to stay somewhere else. If the power’s off, it’s no wonder, though I don’t know how they’d get anywhere with the roads in this state.”

“Those old tracks head out toward the fields,” Johnny said, eying them. His seamed, weathered face was grim, and Declan didn’t wonder why; if anybody had headed out that way, they were probably dead by now. “We’d best check.”

That was the last thing Declan wanted to do. In spite of the Paracetamol, his head ached worse than ever, and his shoes were all wrong for trekking through the snow. Already his feet were going numb, and his hat was totally insufficient to keep his ears warm. It didn’t help that his nose was also leaking like a faucet.

Nevertheless, off they went, trudging through the powdery white, and he tried to brace himself for the sight of corpses. They’d be absolutely mad to head this way, but obviously _somebody_ had – into the woods, it would seem.

Creepy, they were, and ancient, going by the size of the trees. There wasn’t so much as a bird call to break the silence, either; everything was unnaturally still, and he was rather relieved that Johnny hesitated, too, when they actually reached the edge of the forest. It was good to know it wasn’t just him.

Never had he seen such trees. He wouldn’t have thought he’d ever apply the term ‘majestic’, to a forest, but some of these were as big around as the redwoods of California in America. They had to have stood since before the Romans came. The air beneath their skeletal branches…tingled, in a way he’d never felt before – too soft to precisely be called a pins and needles feeling, and almost ghostly.

Declan wasn’t imaginative enough to assign it a name, but he wished he was. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was…alien. Unearthly. He found himself, for no concrete reason, wishing Irish police went about armed.

There was no sign of anyone, no additional tracks, fresh or otherwise. He wanted to get the bloody hell out of there, but if Johnny stayed, so did he.

Dammit.

Then again, Johnny didn’t look any happier than he felt. Normally a ruddy man, his face had gone quite pale, though his nose was red from the cold.

“If we go too much further, we’ll get lost,” Declan said, offering a viable excuse to leave.

“Oh, you are already lost.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin, for he hadn’t heard anyone approach. The voice was male, English, very deep, and when he turned to spot its owner, he stared.

The man fit the physical description of the suspect – six five, long blond hair, nearly as pale as the snow. The description had not done his eyes justice, though – arctic, glacial blue, and at the moment brimming with anger. He wore not a coat, but a long silvery cloak – and he wasn’t standing _in_ the snow, but _on_ it.

A frisson of fear shivered up Declan’s spine, despite the fact that the man – if man he was – appeared to be unarmed. There was nothing remotely human in those eyes. What _was_ he?

Johnny unfroze before Declan did. “Sir, would you happen to know where the residents of this village are?” 

“Safe,” the man said flatly. “With me, for now. You two, however, cannot remain. Nor,” he added, taking a step forward, the movement inhumanly smooth, “can you be allowed to remember.”

Any idea of trying to arrest him was too ludicrous to be considered. Declan was no coward, but every instinct he possessed told him to run like buggery. He had little doubt this strange, terrifying creature would have no qualms about killing him.

A strange, knife-edged smile crossed the man’s face. “Fortunately for you, Eldar do not kill without cause,” he said. “And my wife would be quite displeased with me if I did now. I suggest, however, that you do not give me cause. Cooperate and I will not harm you.”

Somehow, Declan didn’t believe him. Primitive instinct still demanded he run, that icy shiver of fear working its way into his gut, colder than the air or snow. His legs, however, refused to cooperate; all his limbs felt leaden and useless.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to come with us,” Johnny said, to Declan’s total disbelief. His voice, however, was not entirely steady.

The man laughed, very quietly, and it was the most terrifying sound Declan had ever heard – soft though it was, there was thunder in it. “I will walk you to the edge of the forest,” he said, and now there was a certain measure of scorn in his pale eyes, “and you will go along your way, with no memory of this place.”

It was then that Declan decided Johnny must have lost his bloody mind, for his partner drew his nightstick. “This isn’t a laughing matter, sir. You stole an ambulance and assaulted Officer MacDowell.”

All traces of amusement left the man’s face. He was like a statue, pale and cold, his gaze remote and unforgiving as the moon. “I suggest you put that stick down,” he said, his tone frigid. “You do not wish to be a threat to my family.”

“Johnny, let’s _go_ ,” Declan urged, low. Since when did he have to be the sensible one in this partnership? This strange man-creature’s hair was lit up almost silver in the sunlight, his eyes ancient and alien and borderline unholy. Not for a solid gold bar would Declan go anywhere nearer him, yet here was Johnny, the complete nutter.

“Not just yet.” The bastard moved faster than a snake, surging forward and snatching Johnny’s wrist. There was a hideous crack, and he dropped the baton with a cry, by the tall man’s heavy eyebrows drew together, and surprise flickered briefly over his face.

“You people truly _are_ fragile,” he sighed. Johnny stopped screaming, thank God, though his face had gone outright green, his dark eyes glazing over. “I will not apologize, but that was not my intent. Hold still.”

Declan knew he had to get in there, had to try to defend his partner, even if that partner _was_ a bloody idiot, but he had too much self-preservation to attack this…person. Christ, he’d snapped Johnny’s arm just by _grabbing_ it. Cold though it was, Declan was damp with sweat, fear sour in his mouth, and Johnny – Johnny really _wasn’t_ moving. He was staring at the bastard, like he was in some sort of trance – and he kept staring, even when he was released. Even when this nightmare of a man approached Declan, his footsteps silent on the glittering snow.

Declan was not ashamed to admit he might have pissed himself. Just a little.

\--

It was a full two days before power was restored to the town, but not everyone was so keen to leave the halls right off. The snow had stopped falling, but it showed no signs of melting; there was valid reason to hesitate.

Still, some left. Andrew took the Americans with him, and Gran went with Big Jamie to gather supplies for her cottage. She’d refused to speak to either granddaughter of her gift, to their everlasting annoyance.

Lorna and Thranduil had yet to continue their conversation, but she hadn’t forgotten it. They tended to the twins, who still seemed to be growing, impossible though that was. Mairead, before she left, managed to extract a promise to come back in time for Christmas.

“What is Christmas?” Thranduil asked. They’d brought the twins with them to the healing wards, so he could check on her incision and keep an eye on them at the same time. The scent of all the herbs was beautifully relaxing, even if it did make Lorna sneeze a few times, tickling dry in her sinuses.

“It’s a human – Edain – holiday,” she said, hiking up her shirt. “I’ve never paid it much mind, but I’ve no doubt at all Mairead’ll do it as it’s meant to be done. You decorate your house, give each other presents, and eat until you’re sick. In Ireland it’s a big religious holiday, too, though I’ve never paid _that_ much mind, either.” Her family hadn’t exactly been a church-going sort, so she’d never given religion much thought one way or the other. She still didn’t, despite knowing that at least one supernatural thing existed. Thranduil she could see and touch, but her life had never been conducive to something as abstract and intangible as religion.

Thranduil existed. Magic apparently did, too. That was enough to wrap her brain around, for now. She had no idea what _Elves_ believed in, and now was not the time to ask. Something told her the answer would take a while.

“I have no idea what to gift your family,” he said, smearing cool, yarrow-pungent balm over her incision.

Lorna snorted. “I think this has been gift enough,” she said. “Mairead’s not easily impressed, but you’ve managed it. We can cook some sort’v Elf recipe they’ve not heard of before for dinner, and stick bows or something on the twins’ heads.”

She peered into the bassinet, a little anxiously. While her experience with babies was severely limited, she was pretty sure they were meant to cry and fuss a good deal more than the twins did. Thranduil said it was because they were half Elf, but she didn’t have his freaky Elf hearing – she couldn’t just listen to their breathing.

“Do we need to worry about them getting ill, or will they be like you in that?” she asked, watching them watch her with their big green eyes. The downy hair on their heads almost glowed in the light, as pale and soft as their father’s.

“In truth, I do not know,” he said, capping the jar of salve. “As you are mortal, they may well be susceptible to some illness, though I suspect less so than children who are fully Edain.”

“God, I hope so. Kids pick up all sorts’v shite at school. When I was little, at least one’v us was always sick all winter long.”

“Have you ever tried to contact any of your siblings, now that you are grown?” he asked, fixing her shirt for her. She tried not to shiver when his fingers brushed over her skin.

Lorna shook her head. “I don’t think I want to know what’s happened to them,” she said. “They were all like – well, like I was. Too many drugs, too many bad decisions. If they’re dead or in prison, I’d rather not know. Only reason I didn’t go that way again myself after prison is ’cause I met Liam.” And even then had smoked a fair amount of weed, up until she got pregnant. She’d been a cigarette smoker, too, and discovered the hard way how bloody awful nicotine withdrawal was. At least she hadn’t had to go through _that_ this time around.

By his expression, Thranduil didn’t understand, but he didn’t press the issue. No doubt he thought it some human thing he _wouldn’t_ understand, and he might well be right.

\--

Beautiful as Lord Thranduil’s halls were, Mairead was glad to get back to her own home – even if it was frigid as a meat-locker. She could actually see her breath, even once she’d shut the front door. There was frost on the inside of the windows as well as the outside, which the kids of course immediately started drawing smiley-faces in.

She cranked the thermostat up, and surveyed the house. There was no point in opening the salon again until they knew the power would stay on; she’d have a few days off work. Which was a damn good thing, because they only had three weeks until Christmas. Time to get cracking.

When she was a little girl, she and Gran and Grandda had always watched a load of American Christmas movies, and as an adult shed gone as overboard on the decorations as any film character. This was Lorna’s first Christmas with the family, and probably Thranduil’s first _ever_ , so it was going to be memorable, dammit.

Which meant she needed the ladder. And the staple-gun. And their four boxes of Christmas lights. And that was just the beginning.

\--

After almost a week in what literally felt like another world, Big Jamie found going back to normal to be damn hard, and he knew he wasn’t the only one.

It didn’t help that with all the snow, things still weren’t _normal_ at all. By now the roads were well enough plowed that he could get deliveries, which was a bloody good thing, since he hadn’t a bite to feed anyone – and Molly at the Market wasn’t much better.

He thawed out the pub while his children played in the snow, and Orla brought out the decorations. She set to stringing red and gold tinsel garland around with unusual determination, and he thought he knew why: she, like the rest of them, needed to remind herself that she was in the real world again.

How strange it was, knowing those vast caverns had sat so close all these generations, their existence unsuspected by the village. He still wondered how Lord Thranduil hadn’t gone mad from the isolation centuries ago.

How long would he be able to handle watching the people of this village grow old and die, over and over again? If he wasn’t close to them yet, he would be, if he kept up such regular contact. Just how many times could he do it, before he isolated himself again? Oh, he’d likely have his children, but they were a far cry from a whole kingdom. Losing Lorna would hurt him like hell, but losing the rest of them wouldn’t be any picnic, either.

Jamie didn’t know how anyone could want immortality. Not unless those you loved were immortal, too.

Maybe, eventually, finally, Lord Thranduil would follow the rest of his people. The thought was a sad one, but not half so sad as him cut off in his forest again.

All his life, Big Jamie hadn’t given Lord Thranduil much thought. He felt rather bad about that now. The Elf had been held up as some sort of bogeyman, when all along he’d just been a very ancient, very _lonely_ person. It was no great wonder he’d latched so tightly onto the first person to be truly kind to him.

He was patently obviously possessive of Lorna, even if she hadn’t really figured it out yet. What Jamie wondered was how possessive he might get over the rest of his ‘subjects’. Was he going to get pissy if someone tried to move away? He seemed convinced that something terrible was in the offing, so he just might.

Oh well. That was the future. Meanwhile, life resumed. Jamie needed to invest in some sandbags, because once this snow melted, they’d be in for one mother of a flood. Again.

The sky through the window was a clear, cloudless blue, and he desperately hoped it would remain that way. As much as the kids would love a white Christmas, they didn’t need more snow.

\--

The sky stayed clear, the power stayed on, and two days later Lorna, Thranduil, and the twins went to her sister’s house.

Thranduil would have loved to keep them all with him, but the twins really did need to be closer to the village’s healing wards, now that the healers themselves were there. They seemed to be in perfect health, but it was best not to take chances. It was not as though they could safely be taken to a hospital if something _did_ go wrong.

And Lorna seemed pleased to be in her own home, strange though it still seemed to him. A large tree now stood in the corner of the room with the television, festooned with twinkling lights and colored glass balls. Indeed, the lights were bedecked everywhere, along with garlands of holly, some fake and some real.

Her family, he found, were not nearly so leery around him now. No, they did not mob him as they did her, but neither did they shy away. Mairead pressed a freshly-baked gingerbread cookie into his hand even as she peered into the bassinet. He was rather glad Lorna had her for guidance, since it had been so very long since he had dealt with a baby. Mairead’s brood was proof that she knew what she was doing.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, eying him with a glint in her eye he was not entirely certain he liked. “I need help putting up the outside lights, and you’re tall enough that you don’t need a ladder.”

Lorna burst out laughing, lifting Saoirse out of the bassinet. “For Christ’s sake, Mairead, we’ve only just got here. Let him eat a few bloody cookies, and then we’ve got to find a way to fit this bassinet into my room without me tripping over it every time I get out’v bed.”

“They still all right, then?” little Kevin asked. Thranduil wasn’t much good at guessing the age of Edain children, but he suspected the boy was about eight, with his mother’s freckles, his father’s sandy hair, and eyes every bit as startlingly green as Lorna’s. “They’re so _tiny_.”

“Well, sure they weren’t done cooking yet when I had them,” Lorna said, turning so he could inspect Saoirse, who immediately tried to grab his shirt. “They seem fine, though. Rap wood.”

To Thranduil’s silent amusement, the boy did just that, knocking his knuckles on the kitchen table. Saoirse actually turned her head to watch him do it.

He wondered if all Edain families were like this. Eldar hadn’t had large families long before he was born; they usually stopped at two children, if they even had more than one. Elrond had three, but his sons were twins, and he had been a twin himself. And Thranduil suspected that even larger Eldar families were not this…boisterous. The other children hurried about in the background, dragging out boxes and bags, chattering away – they seemed to have far more restless energy than any Elven child. Eldar, as a rule, rarely wasted a movement, but Edain children in particular seemed not to care how much of their energy was squandered. It was apparently limitless.

Were the twins going to be like this? Eru, he hoped not. Legolas had been a quiet and self-contained child, especially after his mother died; Thranduil had never needed to chase after him. Lorna, when not weighed down by pregnancy, seemed rather energetic herself, and he feared their children would inherit it and then some. He rather dreaded the day they learned to walk – which would come rather sooner than it would for an Edain, he suspected. They were in fact going to have to, as she put it, child-proof the halls. And _that_ was going to be something of a nightmare.

He lifted Shane out of the bassinet, watching the boy take in his surroundings with open curiosity, his big green eyes roving over each of his family members. They stopped and fixated on Kevin, likely because he had the same eyes as their mother. 

Lorna must have noticed, for she came over to tickle the baby under his chin, drawing a laugh from him. “You’re a bit creepy like your da, aren’t you, allanah?”

Mairead snorted, and Thranduil arched an eyebrow. “Creepy?”

Lorna actually patted his arm. “Thranduil, you’re very pretty, but you _are_ a bit creepy to a human. Really, it’s _because_ you’re so pretty. Nobody’s meant to look like you.”

“I cannot decide if that is a compliment or a insult,” he said dryly.

“Take it as a compliment,” Mairead said knowingly. “It’s best to do that with anything Lorna says, because she’s got all the tact of an oyster. If she actually means to offend you, there’s usually more swearing involved.”

“Shut it, you,” Lorna said, shifting the baby in her arms. Saoirse yawned, evidently unimpressed. “I need you lot to look after the twins for a bit. I’m taking Thranduil Christmas shopping.”

“I’ll get Gran to light a candle for him,” Shannon muttered, dodging behind her mother to steal a cookie.

“What does that mean?” Thranduil asked. He certainly didn’t like the sound of it.

Mairead snorted again. “It means you’re so screwed only God can help you now.”

“You shut it, too,” Lorna ordered, lowering Saoirse back into the bassinet. “I’ve never been Christmas shopping before. I’d like to see what all the fuss is about.” She gave the baby’s head a pet, rather like one would pet a cat, and headed upstairs.

For some reason, that statement brought sorrow into Mairead’s blue eyes.

“What is it, Mistress Mairead?” he asked, once Lorna had gone.

Mairead sighed, carding a hand through her wild red curls. “Sometimes I forget,” she said. “For most’v us, Christmas shopping’s a chore. Lorna’s twenty-bloody-nine years old, and this is her first go at it. I’m glad she’s got you with her – I’d hate her to think I pity her.”

“ _Do_ you pity her?” Thranduil asked.

“Yes,” she said, “though she’d kick me if she knew. She’ll not have you out long – there’s not much in the village worth browsing. Take her to the pub afterward, if Big Jamie’s got it all square yet. I’ll look after the twins.”

He looked at her curiously. “Lorna says you had never met, before she came to live with you.”

She must have taken his meaning, for she said, “Well, she’s family, isn’t she? Mam, God rest her, didn’t do right by any’v those kids. _Someone_ has to. Lorna’ll not be changing the world, but she deserves better than what she’s had ’til now. If you’re smart, you won’t press her about her childhood.”

“That I already knew.” He’d learned in fairly short order not to ask about her past; she volunteered what she wanted him to know. Thus far, that had been little, doled out in increments. Given how little he had said of his own past, it was only fair.

She reappeared wearing a black wool trench coat, one that fit so suspiciously well that it had to have come from Bridie. On her head, however, was a ridiculous blue hat with the TARDIS on it, and her gloves were striped with black and purple.

Thranduil shook his head. “Come, Tithen Firieth,” he said, offering her his arm. “Show me what shopping is.”

\--

Lorna was weirdly excited despite knowing she was probably going to be doing most of her shopping off Amazon, since there wasn’t exactly much selection in town. Christmas shopping was something normal people did, and even after seven months, being normal was still a novel thing.

She had a bank account. An actual _bank account_ , with savings and everything, and a debit card she’d rarely used. It was a simple and silly thing to be proud of, but proud she was. She hadn’t wound up like her parents after all.

The village, she saw, had been busy. Christmas lights had been wound around all the lamp posts on Main Street, which had also been hung with wreathes that looked distinctly home-made. The pavements were crowded, too, with dozens of people getting their shopping out of the way while they could, lade with parcels and bags. Sunlight glittered off the snow, and it was so damn picturesque it was almost too much.

Her debit card. Shit. After stealing the ambulance (not to mention knocking out the cop), there was probably a warrant out for her arrest, and couldn’t they track things like debit card use? 

She mentioned this to Thranduil, who paused, with an expression that in anyone else she would have described as shifty. “About that,” he said.

“Why do I think I’m not going to like what you’re about to tell me?” she asked, eying him warily.

Had Thranduil been anyone else, she would have expected him to make a face. As it was, he sighed. “Because you are not. Two men came looking for us two days ago – two guards. Cops, as you call them. I altered the memory of the elder with little difficulty, but the younger…manipulating the minds of Edain is no simple matter, and I do not have Lady Galadriel’s precision. He now believes himself to be a child of five.”

Lorna groaned. “Did you send them back to Dublin like that?”

“I had little choice,” he said, “unless I wanted to put them in my dungeons, which, on the whole, I did not. The longer they stayed, the worse it would be.”

“Bloody brilliant,” she sighed. “I just know that’s going to come back and bite us in the arse. I don’t know _how_ , but it will.”

“You are such an optimist, Dilthen Ettelëa,” he said dryly. “If someone seeks you, they seek you. Do not let that stand in the way of a drink at the pub.”

“I need one,” she muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. Nice, Thranduil, but it could in fact have been worse.
> 
> Title means "Consequence" in Irish. As always, your reviews are the sunlight to the plant that is my brain.


	14. Míshuaimhneas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna ain’t no dummy, Johnny and Declan puzzle some people that she and Thranduil don’t want wondering about them, and Lorna and her family learn a bit more about the history of the Elves.

Lorna remained quite freaked out until they were several drinks in at the pub, and left so tipsy she had to lean on Thranduil’s arm for support.

While she hadn’t found much in town, she’d found some, and when the pair of them got back to her house, they sat on her bed while she watched a YouTube tutorial on how to wrap a present. The twins gurgled happily to themselves beside her, and she marveled that her life was so damn _cozy_.

She was still wrestling with tape and paper when the tutorial ended, so she let Thranduil explore YouTube on his own. Out of everything in the modern world, he found the Internet the most fascinating, and she couldn’t blame him. Lorna thought it was pretty fascinating, too. She was glad to have someone to explore the parts of modernity she wasn’t familiar with, especially someone even more unfamiliar with them than her. It made her feel like less of an idiot.

Her room was beautifully warm while she worked (and swore), her little space heater at full blast. The red light of the lingering sunset poured in through her window, staining the posters on her wall. She was warm, she was dry and fed, and she was in a home with people she loved. How the hell had she got so lucky?

The only problem was this bloody wrapping paper. She’d cut and folded it as the video showed, but the result looked nothing like it was meant to – lumpy and uneven. Sod it all.

“Why are Edain so fascinated with cats?” Thranduil asked, watching an extremely fat tabby try to squeeze itself into a clay pot.

“Because they’re cute,” Lorna said, slapping a bow onto a box. Maybe if she stuck enough on, the crap wrapping job wouldn’t be so noticeable. “And they do funny things.”

“Sometimes your people mystify me, Tithen Firieth,” he said, shaking his head.

“Oh, they mystify me, too,” she said, ripping open another package of bows. The twins both stared, so she had one to each of them, and was somewhat disturbed when they actually grabbed and held on. They really _were_ more advanced than average human babies. “Thranduil, what do we do if someone comes out here to find out what happened to those two cops? Their station or whoever’ll know they were here. Even the one with a gap in his memory would raise questions, but the one with almost _no_ memory’ll be worse. What went wrong?”

“I do not know,” he sighed, turning to her. “As I said, I do not have Galadriel’s precision, but that has never happened before. I also broke the other’s arm, though not on purpose. IT is easy to forget how fragile your kind are.”

Lorna groaned. “I hate to say this, but maybe you ought to’ve locked them up. At least if they were missing, they’d just be missing.”

“Once upon a time, I would have,” he said meditatively, “without a second thought, but if I had done that now, I could never have released them. I did not think you would be happy with me, should I imprison two of your own people forever.”

That…really was bizarrely sweet. In a kind of fucked-up way. “You’re right,” she said. “They probably wouldn’t’ve deserved it, no matter how annoying they are. I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.” The thought wouldn’t have been half so frightening if not for the twins. So long as they had to be on the saline and formula drips – and from what Doc Barry said, that was likely to be at least another month, no matter how unnaturally tough they were – going on the run with them just wasn’t an option.

Being trapped in Thranduil’s halls, however, was. Beautiful though they were, she wouldn’t want to stay there for too long without others around her. Lorna disliked the thought of being _trapped_ anywhere, no matter how lovely. Terrible as it was, she didn’t feel properly at home in the halls, and she doubted Thranduil felt properly at home in her house. In his halls, in his forest, she felt strangely cut off from the rest of the world – though perhaps the feeling wasn’t so strange. It was probably what he liked about them, because this was no longer his world, and hadn’t been in centuries.

They really did have a lot of issues that needed to be addressed, before they got actually married. Dammit.

“Thranduil,” she said, though she was quite sure she already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask, “if those two had been anything like a real threat – if we ever get anyone who’s truly a threat – what would you do?”

His answer didn’t surprise her in the least. “I would kill them,” he said evenly, reaching out to brush Saoirse’s forehead with his fingers. “You are my family, and this village is made up of my people. Defending you is as much my task as it is my right.”

Though that was no less than she expected, Lorna was troubled by just how utterly lacking in concern _Thranduil_ sounded. How could he be so indifferent to the idea of killing someone? Sure, she was more than willing to break some bones in defense of those she loved, but she knew herself – she couldn’t actually straight-up _kill_ someone. Not on purpose, anyway. Even her da had been an accident; no, she wasn’t at all sorry he was dead, but she could never have killed him on purpose, no matter that he’d deserved it. She simply didn’t have it in her.

She loved Thranduil, and she knew that he loved her, but at the same time, she wondered about him sometimes. He was kind, and protective, and he could be very sweet, in a dry, extremely understated way, but just now there was such _coldness_ in his eyes. She’d seen brief flashes of it in the hospital, when he believed them threatened, but now…it was always obvious that he wasn’t human, but he’d never before seemed so very alien. 

Lorna wasn’t normally that great at reading people, and never had been, but for whatever reason, just now she could read Thranduil like a book. A comic book, with big, bright pictures. There was a touch of arrogance and a healthy dollop of possessiveness in those arctic eyes, a trace of haughtiness in the slight tilt of his chin, and she was reminded starkly of how little she really knew him. Granted, she hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about her own past, but she had far, far less of it to talk about. Twenty-nine years was nothing compared to six thousand.

And that troubled her. _He_ troubled her. Oh, she wouldn’t give him up unless he was pried out of her cold, dead hands, because she really _did_ love him, and she trusted him, for all he disturbed her, but he _did_ disturb her. She wondered anew just what this beautiful, ancient, inhuman creature saw in her, but she’d come to believe that he really might not be sure of it himself.

“Well, if God forbid it ever come to that, let’s try some non-lethal methods first,” she said. “In this modern world, the sort’v people that’d come looking for us can’t just go missing. It’d get investigated, and the more it happened around here, the worse it’d get. All’v them going back with their minds wiped would look weird, but not half so weird as if they didn’t go back at all.”

Thranduil leaned forward, taking her hand. His skin was so very smooth, and the coolness of it always surprised her a little. She could feel the strength in his fingers, gentle though his touch was. Lorna was pretty damn strong, but she had no doubt at all he could break someone’s neck with very little effort. “Tithen Firieth, if things grow that dire, it will not matter if any know the dead are missing,” he said.

She didn’t know what he meant by that, and had no desire to find out.

\--

Thranduil inwardly cursed his tiny wife’s perceptiveness, even as he helped her get the twins settled for the night. It was not that he wished to _lie_ to her, per se, but there were facets of his being that he would rather she was not aware of just yet. She couldn’t prevaricate to save her life; she wore her thoughts more openly than she likely realized, and he knew that he had unsettled her. 

He ought to be grateful that she was smart enough to be aware of what he didn’t say, that she was not simply infatuated to the point of being blind to the elements of himself that he tried not to show her. He could see her thoughts at work behind the impossibly green windows of her eyes – could read her as well as she read him. Thranduil knew that he had to be careful. Yes, he wanted her to know him, all of him, but he could not risk unnerving her to the point of withdrawal. If she knew some of what lay in his past, she might very well run.

And that would end poorly for everyone.

But she trusted him, for all he disconcerted her. She knew that he would never allow any harm to come to her, their children, or the rest of this village, even if his methods of defense might be more extreme than she would like. There was no tension nor guile in her when she fell asleep with her head on his chest, no hesitation when he touched her or she touched him. Had she been without darkness herself, it might have been otherwise, but he’d seen traces of what he was certain could be an explosive temper, if roused. In that, they were not so wholly unalike.

Idly, he carded his fingers through the long soft fall of her hair, watching the stars through her window. This house felt strange to him, though not unpleasant. Lorna loved it, and the people within it, so he must learn to adapt, especially while the twins were young enough and fragile enough to need to stay here.

Whatever was coming – and it _was_ coming – he prayed to whatever Valar might be listening that it would wait long enough for his children to be strong and sturdy.

\--

Doctor Maeve Farrell was, for once, incredibly puzzled.

She’d seen a number of strange cases over the course of her career, but the cause was usually fairly straightforward. These two, however, especially the younger one…she really didn’t know. And it was as intriguing as it was irritating.

They’d been brought to her very early in the morning – a pair of policemen, dazed, conditions unknown. The elder, an Officer Doyle, was suffering from memory loss and an inexplicable broken arm; the younger, Officer MacDowell, seemed to have lost the last twenty-five years of his life. The latter was perfectly coherent, but firmly believed himself to be five years old, and soon began crying for his mother. The elder was far less reactive, his responses to questions and stimuli slow and drunken.

What made it so peculiar was that both of them had tested negative for any type of drugs. They had, according to her file, gone to the village of Lasgaelen yesterday morning, hale and whole, and returned like this. And nobody knew how, or why.

Officer Doyle was currently asleep, having been given a mild sedative. His arm was encased in a white cast, his face already stubbled. Somehow, he’d managed to drive the fifty-odd miles from Lasgaelen to the station without wrecking, despite his arm. He was pale, frowning in his sleep, his heavy eyebrows drawn together.

Officer MacDowell was awake, occupied with a coloring book someone had produced from God knew where. _He_ was the truly interesting one. Though he was a tall man, everything in his bearing was that of a small child, and he seemed unaware of his height – always, when he stood, he gave his feet a puzzled look, as though surprised to find them so far below. Never had Maeve seen a case of regression so very complete, and she had no idea _why_. He hadn’t been drugged; he’d suffered no stroke nor blood clot. Physically, he was in perfect health. He’d simply somehow totally forgot twenty-five years.

She disdained hypnotists, but at this point, she didn’t know what else to try. Some of his fellow officers had brought items from his flat – his badge, a photo of his girlfriend, his favorite coffee mug, among other things – but none had evinced any recognition. His memory loss was suspiciously perfect.

 _Whatever_ had happened, she’d lay money it happened in Lasgaelen, though she couldn’t imagine anyone or anything there being able to accomplish such a thing. She’d never even heard of the village until now, and a little research had told her it was one out of hundreds of tiny villages dying by degrees, its population striking out little by little. It had no industry, no history of note, no tourist attractions. Christ, they’d only gone out there to arrest a pair of nutters who’d stolen an ambulance, and they’d come back like _this_. It was deliberate on somebody’s part.

She wasn’t going to suggest sending anybody else out there. Not yet. Eventually, though – once she had a better idea what she was dealing with – then she’d recommend a task force be put together. Anyone who could do something this sophisticated could be a very active threat, if they chose.

\--

Though the sky remained clear, the temperature somehow managed to drop yet further, and brought with it an icy wind that rendered outdoor activity impossible.

The power (mercifully) stayed on, but the cable got knocked out, and Lorna was startled by just how annoyed her family was by it. She hadn’t realized they were so reliant upon it for entertainment. Yeah, she enjoyed it, but she wasn’t going to die of boredom without it.

It was too cold to take the twins out even for a drive to the pub, so the lot of them sat ranged around the lounge, Christmas lights twinkling, a bright fire in the fireplace, while Thranduil told stories.

Lorna had had no idea just how much had gone on in ancient Earth that normal people hadn’t been aware of. Seated next to Thranduil, each with a twin on their lap, she listened to his rich voice tell of Doriath, the vast Eldar settlement in what was now Canada. The settlement, in fact, where he had lived as a child.

“My own realm, even at its height, was tiny by comparison,” he said, sipping hot chocolate. He was positively addicted to the stuff. “There were caverns, yes, but hundreds upon thousands of miles of forest as well. It was by far the largest nation of the Eldar in this world, protected from war and harm by the magic of its queen, Melian. There lived the greatest of our craftsmen, our poets and artists – but not, thanks to Melian, the greatest of our warriors. There was little need of them, and they did not see the regular battles of the other realms. And unfortunately, this later became a problem.

“Doriath might yet stand, if not for an army of Dwarves and the greed of Melian’s husband, Thingol. He had in his possession a jewel, a Silmaril, one of the most beautiful things ever crafted – they have an entire tale of their own, though it is long, and even less happy than that of Doriath. He desired to have it set in a necklace, and hired a group of Dwarves to do the work, for Dwarves were always superior craftsmen themselves. They, however, desired to keep it for themselves, and slaughtered Thingol in his own caverns, likely driven temporarily mad by greed for that accursed jewel.

“Naturally, they were soon killed themselves, but Melian, in her rage, quit this world – and without her, her protection failed. It was not long before an entire army of Dwarves invaded, and turned the caverns and the forest nearest them into a bloodbath. This went on and on, back and forth, until the population was much reduced.”

“Harsh,” Shannon muttered, wincing.

“Oh, it gets worse,” Thranduil said grimly. “The final destruction of Doriath came about not thanks to Dwarves, but other Eldar. The sons of the one who crafted the Silmarils had sworn an oath to kill any who stood in the way of retrieving them, and for whatever reason, none who held one seemed willing to part with it. Dior, grandson of Melian and Thingol, kept the Silmaril, and got himself and his wife killed for their trouble, along with the bulk of what remained of Doriath’s people.

“I was little more than a child when Doriath fell, but I remember well what it was at its height – and I remember its destruction. It was the first of battle I had ever witnessed, and it came at the hands of my own people. You must understand, Eldar do not kill one another. It is beyond taboo. The sons of Fëanor, and the Kinslayings they perpetuated, were the most monstrous things we could have imagined. And all for three jewels.” He sighed. “I never saw the Silmaril myself, but I cannot imagine how something not deliberately enchanted to be enticing could cause so much grief. My parents would never speak of it.

“One of the things has gone beyond the bounds of this world; what has happened to the other two, I do not know. I only hope they will never be found. If they could drive Eldar to do such things to one another, I do not wish to know what they would do to your kind, who are so often at fatal odds with one another already.”

Lorna shivered. She didn’t think she wanted to know, either. “Have you got any _happy_ stories?” she asked, looking up at him.

He arched an eyebrow. “Truly happy stories are few and far between. You likely have more than I.”

“We’ve got more sinners than saints ourselves,” Mairead sighed, draining her mug of cider. “And Ireland’s history is more or less one long tragedy. Most truly happy things that happen aren’t grand enough for stories. They’re just people, being good to one another when they’ve no direct reason to be.”

“When we get the Internet back, I’ll take you to YouTube and show you the ‘Faith in Humanity’ videos,” Lorna promised him. “We can be shit, yeah, but that’s not all there is to us.”

“That,” he said, touching little Saoirse’s fuzzy head, “I already realized.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lorna, for all she loves Thranduil, is neither blind nor stupid. She’s not going further into this relationship with her eyes shut. The fact that he chooses not to be terrifying around her and the village doesn’t change the fact that he _could_ be.
> 
> The story of Doriath is from _The Silmarillion_. We don't actually know when Thranduil was born, but it's reasonable to assume he lived in Doriath at some point, since he's Sindarin. And the ancient, thick forests of Canada would be perfect for Nan Elmoth.
> 
> Title means “Unease” in Irish. As ever, your reviews sustain my soul.


	15. Bíodh imní Ort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, but it’s because I’m gearing up to their Christmas party. Thranduil is going to be _fascinated_ (as will Lorna; she’s never really experienced Christmas, either).

For the next few days, Thranduil took to disappearing into his forest for long stretches each day, returning in time for dinner. All he would say of it was that he was working on Lorna’s Christmas present, so she didn’t press him about it. Especially since it gave her time to work on his.

For Mairead and Company she had bought things, but she thought it best to make him one. The trouble was that she was shite at everything but knitting.

Eventually she settled on starting a scrapbook, shelling out more than she ought to have for a big wooden book of parchment. It was oak, sanded and polished, a delicate, branching tree carved onto the cover. It was beautiful, and it probably weighed a good five pounds. The texture of the parchment was pleasantly alien beneath her fingers.

She borrowed one of Mairead’s blue stamp-pads, and pressed a tiny fingerprint from each twin onto the first page. She’d actually saved one of the leaves that had been stuck in her hair after her and Thranduil’s bout of sexcapades, so she ironed it between sheets of waxed paper and stuck it onto the center of the page.

Nuala sent her a photograph of the stolen ambulance’s number plate, which she printed out and put in as well, but after that and the twins’ last ultrasound, she was at a loss. There wasn’t much in the way of documentation of their still-new relationship.

Oh well. It was a good start, and she’d take plenty of pictures at Christmas.

She shoved the book under her bed, wincing at the dull pain in her incision. Thranduil was lucky they’d got two kids for the prices of one, because seriously, she was _never_ doing that again. Even now she slept more than she ought to, her stamina was shot to hell – and according to Nuala, she likely had a good five more weeks until she was somewhere close to normal.

“You two are lucky you’re so cute,” she said, looking at the pair of them. She’d been trying to keep them upon the bed with her as often as she could, so they could interact while she worked – and it remained a touch unnerving, just how aware they really were. It was probably a good thing she didn’t have more experience with human babies, or it might have been even more jarring. Even in the warmth of her room, she had them bundled in fleece blankets, their various drips hanging off a hook she’d screwed into the ceiling.

“And what’s going to happen to the pair’v you, when you’re older?” she asked, letting Shane grip her index finger. She still couldn’t believe human hands could be that tiny. “What if you want to travel? How in God’s name are we to get your identities sorted, without getting arrested?”

The baby only gurgled in response, and his sister belched – a surprisingly loud belch, for so small a child. Lorna tried to lift her before she could sick up all over the bed.

She managed it, but only got puked on herself for her trouble – all over her flannel trousers. Lovely.

She grabbed a cloth and wiped Saoirse’s face with it, then tried to struggle into clean PJ bottoms one-handed, nearly hanging herself on the IV line as she did.

Naturally, that was how Thranduil found her – trousers halfway down her knees, plastic tube around her neck, crying baby in one arm. He didn’t laugh, and his mouth only tilted in the barest hint of a smile, but the arch of an eyebrow told her he thought the entire thing hilarious.

“Hush, you,” she said, scowling. “Here, take her.” She passed him the fussing Saoirse, and disentangled herself form the tubing before hiking up her trousers. Thranduil’s pale eyes still shone with amusement, and her own narrowed.

“Were I an artist, I would draw you as you just were,” he said, sitting on the bed beside Shane. In his high-collared, russet tunic, he really did look terribly out-of-place in her bedroom – even if he _was_ wearing a pair of bright red carpet slippers given to him by her brother-in-law.

Saoirse left off her crying so she could chew on his hair – an action he tolerated with only a slight sigh. Lorna didn’t even want to imagine what they’d be like, when they started teething. Her youngest brother, Mick, had been a nightmare, quiet only when Mam gave him a frozen pacifier.

“Your sister gave me this,” Thranduil said, fishing something out of his pocket. It looked like an iPhone. “I do not know what it is.”

“It’s a mobile,” Lorna said, taking it from him. It seemed alarmingly flimsy, sleek and black, and she had to hunt for the power button. “Mairead’s got one like it, though she’ll barely let me touch it. You can do all sorts with this kind – even go on the internet, though I’ve no idea how to make it work myself.”

“Well, you will have the time to work it out,” he said, prying his hair out of Saoirse’s grip. “She bought you one as well.”

Lorna winced a little. She didn’t know just how much an iPhone cost, but she knew they weren’t cheap, and Mairead had sprung for two of the things?

“You seem troubled,” he said, watching her closely.

“It’s the bloody ambulance,” she sighed, sitting beside him and lifting Shane into her arms. “We’ll not get away with that, once the snow melts. Once upon a time, thought of six months in gaol would’ve sent me haring off on my own, but now? Sure God, I can’t do that now. I’ll have to be hiding until the statute’v limitations runs out – six years for the cop, and Christ knows for the ambulance. With my record, they could put me away however long they wanted.”

“Is that such a hardship?” Thranduil asked, brushing the fringe off her forehead. “Did you truly want to travel?”

“It’s one thing to not _want_ to, and another to know you _can’t_ ,” she sighed. “No, I’d no plans to travel, but I can’t use my debit card. I had to borrow Big Jamie’s for my Amazon shopping, and pay him back when Mairead pulled everything out’v my account.” All her cash was now in a jar under her bed, which was a bit depressing. She’d liked having a bank account, like a normal person.

Lorna sighed again. “I know it’s stupid, but – I almost feel like I’m right back where I started. As a criminal, I mean. Yeah, it was necessary – it’s not like a knocked over a jewelry store or anything – but the law wouldn’t care.”

Thranduil tucked her hair behind her ear. “No one in this village cares,” he said. “They are the only ones who really matter. You are still young enough yet, Firieth Dithen, even for an Edain. Seven years is not so long.”

She managed a brief smile. “I know,” she said. “Meanwhile, we’ve got to figure out what to do if more cops turn up. You can’t just keep wiping their memories – wait. I know what we’ll do. If Mairead files a missing-person’s report on me, nobody’ll come looking for me here, and legally, you don’t exist. With my criminal history, the idea’v me running’s no stretch at all.”

The thought kind of sucked, honestly, but it would be worth it – and really, she didn’t see any other options. They couldn’t forever live in fear that someone would come poking around, and Thranduil really couldn’t keep playing hob with people’s minds. The more than went home with holes in their memory, the more others would get curious. Even the protection of the Age of Skepticism would only last for so long, if enough weird shit made itself known.

Christmas. They’d get through Christmas, and deal with it then.

\--

Christmas, Thranduil decided, was much like the winter feasts of the Wood-Elves – it simply went on longer. The holiday itself had yet to arrive, but much of the village was now crammed into the pub, eating and drinking and singing off-key.

Between the fireplace and the sheer number of people, it was very warm, the air redolent with the scent of roast beef, hot cider, and a haze of alcohol that was nearly palpable. The metallic garland glinted in the firelight, little colored lights on strings twinkling all along the ceiling. It was…strange, yet not unlovely.

Seated in a corner, with Lorna beside him and Shane in his arms, he was reminded of other feasts, so very long ago – his great hall, filled with his people, doing much the same thing as these Edain. Legolas moving among them, healthy and strong, dancing with all and sundry – so much more open than his embittered father.

And yet, embittered or not, Thranduil had watched from this throne and felt the warmth of something another might have called affection. Yes, he could be harsh, and cold, but his people were safe, celebrating with little care in the world. Their voices were like music, their eyes jewel-bright, a swirl of silk and velvet as they danced – they were his people, and he had long kept them safe, even while other Elven realms fell and faded.

He could not truly blame them for leaving, slowly but steadily. When the Sea called, it called; there was no gainsaying it forever. And after the Obliteration…he well understood why they would go, though he felt no such compulsion himself.

And now look at him – King of a handful of Edain, their lives so bright and so achingly brief. He knew it would be unwise to grow attached to them – once upon a time, it would never have been a possibility, but he had been alone for so very, very long.

He should have sailed long ago, but some instinct told him that even had he wanted to, he would not have been allowed. In his heart, he knew that for whatever reason, he was bound to this world. To these people. The Valar were more cruel than he had realized, to give him something he knew he would inevitably lose – and in not very long at all, by his reckoning.

Lorna poked his arm. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’re brooding.”

Thranduil looked down at her. Her eyes were bright with alcohol, though Nuala had sternly ordered her not to have more than one. “I have not the words to explain,” he said, and it was true enough. Lorna was young and mortal; there was no way she could really understand. There were none left in this world who could.

Her eyes flicked to the crowd, which was growing ever louder and more inebriated. “You miss them,” she said, “don’t you? Your people?”

“Yes,” he sighed, “but it is more than that. More than I can explain.”

She grabbed his free hand and gave it a squeeze. She must have realized that there was nothing that could really be said to that, for she didn’t try. There were some things that could only be dealt with alone.

He looked down at Shane, who was watching the crowd with avid interest, his big green eyes roving to and fro. An Eldar infant would be close to self-awareness by now, even after so short a time, and he suspected the twins might be near enough themselves. Even yet, he did not know just what strange combination of senses they might have; their mother was Edain, yes, but clearly they had inherited a few characteristics from him as well. 

He was not alone – was no longer the last of the Eldar. Yes, they might decide to choose mortality, but they might not. It would be years yet before the choice was even offered.

He could live with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Thranduil. Some things are just going to be hard for him sometimes. As for Lorna, the fact that she’s basically on the run again (so to speak), is really going to grate in fairly short order.
> 
> Title means “Worry” in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with warm fuzzies.


	16. Oíche Nollag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is rather late, but I’ve been extremely busy. Both my parents had surgery this month, and my daughter came down from school for Christmas, so writing has been on the back burner.
> 
> In which Christmas Eve happens. God help everyone. Note: This is not how you deep-fry a turkey. Not at all. Do not attempt, at home or anywhere else, unless you feel like burning down everything around you.

Christmas Eve, Lorna decided, was either a dream or a nightmare. She didn’t yet have enough experience to know which.

Mairead and Gran had been in the kitchen all day, arguing over the food. The kids had all gone out to play in the snow for a while, Thranduil was off somewhere being mysterious, and Lorna’s brother-in-law had dragooned her into helping with the turkey. Apparently he’d read that Americans sometimes deep-fried them, so now he had to try it. Her role was to stand by with the fire extinguisher, in case something blew up. Given that the fryer was home-made, that was a distinct possibility.

It was freezing, the thin afternoon sunlight providing nothing at all in the way of warmth, but she didn’t dare go too near the…thing. It was half a beer keg borrowed off Big Jamie, set atop the barbecue – a Weber gas giant that was groaning so much under the weight that she feared it might collapse at any moment.

“Are you really sure this is a good idea?” she asked, yet again. Normally she’d be all about things exploding, but this was Christmas dinner, dammit. If Kevin blew up their turkey, Mairead wouldn’t be the only one out for his blood.

“I know what I’m doing,” he assured her – a bald-faced lie, and they both knew it. The heat of the barbecue had sent his face blooming red, sweat gathered at his temples, dampening his sandy hair.

The turkey was a thirty-pound monstrosity he had to wheel over in a cart. When he went to manhandle it up into his makeshift deep-fryer, Lorna peered closer.

“Kevin, you’ve not left it frozen, have you?” she asked, incredulous. Christ, even _she_ knew better than that.

“It’s not like there’s been any place to thaw it,” he pointed out, hefting the thing up onto his shoulder.

“Kevin, don’t –” He was going to do it. He was actually going to – she couldn’t spray him with the fire extinguisher, or Mairead would kill her. Tackling him was likewise right out. Without thinking, she planted her left boot onto the barbecue and shoved, hard. If she let Kevin blow his face off, Mairead would never forgive her.

The deck was still so icy that the thing shifted startlingly easily, skidding more than rolling. She’d intended to just nudge it out of the way, but it picked up an alarming amount of momentum before she could grab it – which was just as well, since it would have just dragged her right after it.

“Lorna, what –” Kevin flailed, slipping and nearly dropping the turkey anyway. To her horror, the barbecue slid right on by him, and crashed into the railing. Thank Christ it didn’t break, but it was enough to tilt the keg – and its boiling oil – all over deck and barbecue alike.

A gout of flame a good fifteen feet high shot up, the heat searing Lorna’s face. She flailed frantically with the fire extinguisher, spraying it, the deck, and herself with foam – though thankfully she missed the turkey.

“You can’t put something frozen in hot oil, you eejit!” she cried, before he could get started. “Youd’ve had no face!”

“My barbecue,” he groaned, staring at it with the expression of someone who had just watched their child get murdered.

“It’ll live, and so will you,” she growled. “You’re welcome. If you value your life, you’ll not tell Mairead what you were about to do.”

“My _barbecue_ ,” he repeated, still staring.

Before she could shout at him, the fire sprang back to life in one great _whoosh_. Lorna frantically attacked it with the extinguisher again, not pausing even when Mairead wrenched open the sliding-glass door and demanded to know what the hell was going on.

“Shite-for-brains was about to drop a frozen turkey into boiling oil,” Lorna snapped, jerking the hose so she could hit every square inch of the barbecue.

“ _What?_ ” That was a bellow the like of which Lorna had never yet heard from her sister, who launched into a stream of invective even she found impressive.

Kevin looked rather like he wanted to hide behind the turkey, his face as red as his woolly hat, and she couldn’t blame him. She occupied herself with the barbecue, plastering the entire thing with foam until the extinguisher ran dry.

“For Christ’s bloody sake, you’d’ve burned your face off!” Mairead screeched.

“That’s what I said,” Lorna grunted, shaking the extinguisher.

Kevin wisely said nothing. When Mairead was on the warpath, even _Lorna_ wouldn’t argue with her. She grabbed the turkey, staggering a little under the weight, and waddled her way into the house with it.

He shot Lorna an extremely dirty look before heading inside, but at least he still had eyes to look _with_. She ignored him, and managed to get a last squirt out of the extinguisher. It sizzled when it hit the barbecue.

Naturally, that was when Thranduil showed up.

Thranduil was not the most expressive of beings. He rarely laughed, and most of his smiles edged on smirks. He communicated his amusement through his eyes, the subtle twitch of his mouth and arch of an eyebrow. He might not be laughing on the outside, but he sure as hell was on the inside.

“I fear to ask,” he said, moving over the snow as silently as a ghost. In his slivery cloak, he rather looked like one.

“You ought to,” she said, eying the barbecue with suspicion. If it burst into flames again, she was going to shove it onto the lawn; at least if it exploded, it wouldn’t take the whole bloody house with it. “We’ll not be having turkey tonight, but Mairead’s pitching such a fit that we might just be eating my brother-in-law instead.” Indeed, her shouting in the kitchen could be heard even out there.

Thranduil looked so disturbed that Lorna wondered if he took her words literally. “Is cannibalism customary in this festival?”

“No,” she said, “but that eejit would’ve burned his face off and the house down if I hadn’t stopped him, and now the menu’s banjaxed to hell. If Mairead doesn’t kill him, Gran will.”

“I think this is perhaps going to be more entertaining than I expected,” Thranduil said dryly. “And you will freeze, if you stay out here any longer.”

“You’re probably right.” Even in Kevin’s quilted hunting jacket, she was shivering. If the barbecue _did_ explode in her absence…well, that would just be more entertainment.

In they went, Lorna slipping and sliding, and she breathed a sigh of relief when warm air enveloped her. She shucked her foam-covered coat, wisely leaving it out on the deck, and sniffed – the house was redolent of stuffing and mincemeat, and half a dozen things she had only heard of, and hadn’t been sure were actually real.

Mairead, still in the kitchen, appeared to be genuinely on the edge of murder. “She was right, you eejit!” she yelled, at a Kevin who had evidently retreated. “You’d’ve boiled your own brain!” The force of her ire was somewhat undercut by the fact that she was still hugging the turkey.

Lorna looked at Thranduil, whose expression was curious and bemused. If he’d known what an anthropologist was, he probably would have felt like one.

“Is this as weird for you as it is for me?” she asked, while Mairead slammed the turkey into the sink, muttering that they’d never get it thawed in time.

“I do not yet know,” he said dryly. “I do not have any basis for comparison.”

“Neither do I,” she muttered.

“This is nothing,” Gran said. “When I was a girl, it wasn’t properly Christmas until someone had been lamped out. Usually in church.”

Again, his mouth twitched into that almost-smile. “The feasts of my people were not violent, but they could be rather…spirited,” he said. “Other realms saw our drinking as excessive, but other realms did not have such fine wine. Limiting oneself to a single glass was impossible.”

Lorna gave him a suspicious look. “Your people’re the reason the Irish like a good drink so much, aren’t they?”

“Perhaps,” he said blandly, that little Thranduil-smile growing a fraction more evident. “Few of you ever saw our celebrations, but once we traded wine and ale freely with you.”

“And five thousand years later, we’ve got one’v the highest rates of alcoholism in the world,” she snorted, kicking off her boots. “Thanks for that. It’s been called the Irish Virus, and it’s _so_ nice to know we caught it from you.”

He looked wholly unrepentant, and she realized he probably didn’t know what alcoholism even was. His education would have to continue after the holidays.

Mairead continued to splash the turkey, muttering darkly, and Kevin wisely slunk into the lounge, where the four kids were monitoring the twins. ‘Monitoring’ in this case meant sticking bows on them.

Lorna led Thranduil that way, too, not wanting to get in her sister’s way. In this mood, only Gran could deal with her. The couch was the safest place to be.

\--

Thranduil said little, but he watched them all with interest.

He would wager that the common folk among his people had once celebrated thus – though likely with less cursing. Once – long, long ago – he and Anameleth and Legolas had rung in the new year together, their own private celebration after the formal feast. It had been nothing like this, for they had no other family; it had been quiet, calm, the three of them seated beside the fire with mulled wine.

There was a fireplace here, too, bright and warm, the logs burning high. Mairead’s four children were ranged around the twins on the floor, busy with bows and ribbons, which the babies naturally chewed on. Kevin had retreated to the corner, looking rather like he expected to be executed at any moment. Given his wife’s current mood, his fear might not be unfounded.

The large tree in the corner was now surrounded by brightly-wrapped boxes of all sizes. He had brought over all but Lorna’s gifts last week; hers he would give in private. Mairead would almost certainly not like what he was giving her children, but they might well have need of it later Hopefully she would be mollified by _her_ present.

Shannon hauled herself to her feet, disappearing into the kitchen. She returned with two mugs, one held precariously with a thumb half blocked by her cast. Even at a distance, he could almost see a haze of fumes above them.

“Gran’s secret recipe,” she said. “Not even Mam knows what’s in it.”

“I’m not sure _I_ want to know what’s in it,” Lorna said, sipping carefully as soon as a mug was handed to her. “Christ, it burns.”

Thranduil hazarded a sip himself, and found that it did indeed burn. There was a taste of apples, but also a combination of spices he couldn’t identify, infused with sweet cream. Its potency could rival that of Dorwinion. 

“Gran let me have a sip once,” Shannon whispered. “I didn’t think my nose would ever stop running.”

“I don’t wonder why,” Lorna said. “This’d clean out the sinuses even better than Wasabi.” 

A slightly unholy gleam entered her eyes. “Tell you what,” she said. “I can’t have this much alcohol so soon after my C-section, so why don’t you and I split this? It’ll give your mam something to give out over that isn’t the turkey.”

Thranduil snorted, but said nothing. Shannon was not yet his sister-daughter in Lorna’s eyes; he had no place to comment. It definitely _would_ give Mairead cause to forget the turkey.

Shannon, slightly wide-eyed, took the mug. She choked a bit when she drank, her eyes immediately watering, and Lorna grinned.

“Your sister will murder you in your sleep,” he said.

“Not with you here, she won’t. Christmas armistice.”

He had no idea what that meant, being unfamiliar with the word ‘armistice’, but he doubted it would be enough to mitigate Mairead’s wrath. The damage, however, was already done; even after only a few swallows, Shannon’s face had gone red with drink, her eyes shining.

“That’s the spirit,” Lorna said, leaning against his shoulder as she took the mug back. “When your mam blows a gasket, send her to me.”

Shannon nodded, giggling, and tripped a little on her way back to the twins.

“I hope you have a bag packed, for when your sister throws us out into the snow,” Thranduil said dryly.

“She’ll not do any such thing,” Lorna retorted. “She’d never send the twins out in such cold. If she’s mad at Kevin, Shannon, _and_ I, nobody’ll bear the full brunt of it.”

“You are a ridiculous creature,” he said, though there was some logic to it.

“So you’ve said,” she grumbled, looking up at him. “Many times.”

“I only speak the truth, Firieth Dithen.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Right. Drink your booze, Drag Queen Barbie.”

On the floor, Shannon laughed so hard she choked, and the others burst into giggles. Even Kevin snorted.

“I take it that is not a complimentary epessë,” Thranduil said.

“Epessë?” Lorna asked.

“I believe you might call it a nickname.”

“Ah. Well, it’s no worse than ‘Tiny Woman’,” she said. “Barbie’s a doll with long blonde hair, and a drag queen is a bloke who wears women’s clothing. Don’t you dare to try to tell me that’s not a dress,” she added, poking the deep green brocade of his tunic.

“It is not,” he said, with an arch of his eyebrow.

“It’s bloody fancy and it’s got a skirt,” she said. “By my standards, it’s a dress.”

“I will never win this argument, will I?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

She gave him a cheeky grin. “Nope,” she said. “You might as well quit while you’re ahead.”

He was unfamiliar with that phrase, too, but he could guess its meaning well enough. His recent time among the Edain had taught him a word he thought suited Lorna quite well: snarky. She certainly could not be called demure. Eru know what he would do, if their children turned out like her.

Mairead, her face still as red as her hair, came stomping into the lounge. “Well, there’ll be no turkey tonight, and probably none tomorrow, either. The bloody thing’s still frozen solid. We’ll just have to make do.” 

“We could feed half the village on what we’ve got already,” Lorna said, clearly trying to be soothing.

“When I was a girl, we never had turkey,” Gran called from the kitchen. “Nor half this other mess. We were lucky if we had a chicken to fry.”

“Shane stole us a turkey one year, when we lived in the warehouse,” Lorna said. “The kitchen was at the back’v the house, and the family were all watching TV in the lounge at the front, so he just walked right in and nicked it out’v the oven. There were so many’v us we only got a few bites, but he’d got some things from the soup kitchens, too. He was the only one who ever could,” she added, scowling a little.

“Why?” Mairead asked.

“If you’re a minor alone in a soup kitchen or shelter, they call the cops to get you stuffed into foster care,” Lorna replied, her tone indicating quite well what she thought of _that_ idea – whatever it actually was. “One bout’v _that_ was enough.”

“Were they mean?” little Niamh asked.

Lorna shook her head. “No, they actually seemed pretty nice. It was just…they didn’t understand. They wanted me to be something I didn’t know how to be, like that would somehow erase everything that went before. Christ, they wanted me to change my bloody _name_ – they wanted to call me Mary. It was a child they were after, but not me. They would’ve done the same to any girl. I legged it out the window at night after a week. The woman’d told me that afternoon she wanted me to get a haircut – wanted to chop it all the way up to my shoulders.”

Mairead snorted. “Of course _that’d_ be the thing that drove you off.”

“Nobody touches the hair,” Lorna said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

\--

Mairead really was in a foul temper. She’d wanted this dinner to be perfect – she should have known better than to let Kevin try to deep-fry the bloody turkey. The thing was so huge that it probably wouldn’t thaw until New Year’s. This was the first proper Christmas both Lorna and Thranduil had ever seen, and she wished it needn’t have started out such a mess.

There were the twins on the floor, covered in bows and apparently fascinated by them. At least they were too young to remember this – or so she assumed. They were half Elf; who knew just when their sense of self-awareness began.

Well. Lorna was right – they did indeed have more than enough food. Still, Mairead wasn’t going to let Kevin forget the turkey any time soon.

When they sat, Lord Thranduil’s curiosity was amusing, but Lorna’s was just sad. Mairead wondered just how much of this food she had never seen before.

There was stuffing, and smoked salmon, potatoes both baked and mashed, Christmas cake, Christmas pudding, four different kinds of cheese, and a fruit salad recipe she’d found online, that she’d unfortunately had to make with canned fruit. Accompanying it was some mystery concoction Gran had brought – it looked like black pudding, and smelled strongly of cherries and alcohol.

Speaking of alcohol, Shannon was looking suspiciously flushed and bright-eyed. Mairead glanced at Lorna, who seemed to be doing her best to look innocent. It wasn’t working. She’d have to be dealt with later.

“All right,” Mairead said. “Grace, the lot’v you. I’ll probably regret this, but Lorna, you have a go at it.”

The children groaned, but both Lorna and Lord Thranduil looked intrigued. She made a mental note to ask about Elvish religious beliefs at a later time.

“Good food, good meat, good God, let’s eat,” Lorna said, looking slightly nervous.

“And _thank_ God Kevin’s still got a face,” Mairead said pointedly.

\--

Some of the food was strange to Thranduil, but cake was cake, be you Eldar or Edain. He ate slowly, watching Lorna and the children – how such small people could eat so much was beyond him.

Bridie was surveying the family with blatantly possessive pride. Her children were scattered to the four corners of the world – or dead, in the case of Lorna and Mairead’s mother – but she had her granddaughters, and her great-grandchildren, all warm and well-fed under one roof. It was a wonder how so many Edain could cling to their families, all the while knowing they would lose one another someday. Mortality had to be a terrible burden to bear.

And they didn’t even know where they went when they died. _No one_ knew, save Ilúvatar. It was, Thranduil thought, a strange cruelty, for they were the only race who didn’t. The Dwarves could be assured of a place in Aulë’s halls, where they would presumably feast and drink to their hearts’ content, but Edain? They had to step blindly into a complete mystery. Their lives were so short that he wondered how they could bear it.

Perhaps that was why they came together like this. They needed to make the utmost of what time they had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil, you are quite right. Title means “Christmas Eve” in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my brain. Feed me. Om nom.


	17. Lá Nollag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Christmas morning happens, the kids get grossed out, Mairead wants to murder Thranduil, and both he and Lorna are rather bemused by the whole thing.

Thranduil had never before understood the term ‘food coma’, but he was apparently witnessing it now. It wasn’t long after dinner that the family started nodding off – all but the youngest, who eyed the presents with open greed.

Lorna herself was drowsy, Saoirse asleep on her lap. He brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead. “If you fall asleep here, you will regret it tomorrow,” he said. “Come, Firieth Dithen. We must put the twins to bed.”

She yawned hugely – something that had rather startled him, when he first saw it – and hauled herself to her feet, careful not to wake the baby. She bid her family a slightly hazy good-night, and followed him up the stairs. 

Her house, though cozy and warm, was too small. Mercifully, it was outside of the village proper, and thus not surrounded by that unnatural stone, but he would still not want to live here. The world of the Edain might be vast, but it felt so very small.

No, he could not stay here for long. He would see the family through these holidays, but then he must return to his forest. The twins were not yet hardy enough to be taken far from the healer, so Lorna could not yet go with him, but he would show her his forest in springtime. It was her forest, too, and if some disaster eventually befell them all, she had to be prepared to live there.

The entire village did. They all seemed almost dependent on their technology, which they would not have in his halls. They must learn to live without it, while they had a chance to do it voluntarily.

He and Lorna settled the twins for the night, and once she’d crawled into her own bed, she was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Thranduil sat beside her, eying his mobile phone as one might a puzzle. He still could not read the Edain alphabet, but he suspected being capable would not truly have helped. There were a dozen buttons on the thing called a screen, each with a picture. According to Lorna, it could access the internet – though in truth, she was hardly proficient at its use herself. She might be more adept with technology than he was, but she was still well behind everyone else in the village.

After the new year, he would begin teaching them all how to survive in his world. They would, he was sure, thank him later.

\--

Lorna woke the next morning with a raging case of indigestion, and a mouth that tasted like rotted cotton. Lovely. Her clock read just shy of five a.m., but she might as well get up.

Thranduil, she found, was seated beside her, and she suspected he hadn’t slept last night. She could only thank God the twins hadn’t inherited that weird stamina, or she’d never get any sleep herself.

“Happy Christmas,” she said, yawning, and sat up to kiss his cheek. “Are the twins awake?”

“Not yet. You have time to make tea.” He was and remained baffled by the drink – by caffeine in general. Apparently, it didn’t affect Elves.

“If we’re to deal with all four children, I’ll need it,” she said, crawling over him and off the bed. “Mind you, the youngest still believe in Father Christmas, so play along.”

“Who or what is Father Christmas?”

“A story,” Lorna said, stuffing her feet into her slippers. “He’s a big fat man who travels around the world in a flying sleigh on Christmas Eve, giving presents to good children. They figure out otherwise eventually, but it’s meant to make Christmas a bit magical.”

“You _lie_ to them?” he asked.

“I suppose that’s one way to put it, but it’s a bit harsh. We live in a world without magic, Thranduil,” she said, pulling on her heavy flannel dressing-gown. “That doesn’t mean our children have to know that right off. I never had a chance to believe in Father Christmas.”

She left him that to chew on as she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Honestly, her youth hadn’t left her feeling as deprived as everyone seemed to think it ought to. Her adolescence had been happy enough, in an odd, unorthodox way. That did not, however, mean she wanted her children growing up that way.

The pipes groaned when she turned the tap all the way on, and she winced. They’d left the faucets dripping day and night to keep the pipes from freezing, but if this cold didn’t let up soon, they might burst anyway. _That_ was something she didn’t want to contemplate.

She took care of her morning ablutions in a hurry, and when she returned to her room, she found Thranduil had the twins up and changed. Lorna didn’t know why she’d been so surprised he knew how to change a diaper – he’d had a kid already, after all – but she was. He’d definitely been better than she was, at first. Even Mairead had been impressed.

“Will anyone be awake yet?” he asked, handing her Saoirse.

“With four kids in the house? They’ve probably been up an hour already,” she said. “They can watch the twins for something to do, until everyone else gets up.”

They crept down the stairs – Thranduil silent, and Lorna as quiet as she could be – and found the tree aglow, though the rest of the lights were off. All four children were indeed seated in front of it, shaking various presents. They all gave a guilty start when they realized they’d been caught.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Lorna said, setting Saoirse on the floor and untangling her tubes. “Watch these two, will you? I need tea and Pepto or I’ll sick up all over everything.”

“Gross, Aunt Lorna,” Shannon said, wrinkling her nose. “Go. Run. Ew.” She was looking a bit pale herself; maybe even half a drink had been a bit much for her. 

“No sicking up on my children,” Lorna ordered, padding into the kitchen, slippers shuffling. She still boggled a little at how very _domestic_ her life was. She lived in a proper house, with a proper kitchen, boiling water for tea on a stove that wasn’t portable and run on bottled gas. There were times she still felt like her life was about as real as a TV show.

Thranduil only made it even more surreal. He was so tall that his head nearly brushed the ceiling, his rich tunic entirely out-of-place against the oak cabinets and stainless-steel refrigerator. Though he’d seen the stove used several times, he remained visibly interested in it – visibly for him, anyway. As with so many things, it was his eyebrows that gave him away; he seemed to have dozens of different expressions communicated almost solely through them. In this case, they rose ever so slightly, a certain sharpness in his eyes.

“You really want natural gas in your place, don’t you?” she asked, pushing the button and watching him watch the flames spring up.

“I cannot imagine it would be _that_ difficult to acquire,” he said, filling the kettle for her. Lorna had no idea how one installed gas, or even where it came from, so she could neither confirm nor deny.

She downed some Pepto Bismol, grimacing a little at the chalky taste, and rinsed her mouth out with vodka. Mairead didn’t need to know.

Her eyes traveled to the doorway, and she smirked, grabbing Thranduil’s hand. She also grabbed a chair, dragging it and him under the little sprig of mistletoe hanging from the lintel.

“Christmas tradition,” she said, clambering up onto the chair, and kissed him.

She felt him smile as he wrapped his arms around her, and she twined her fingers into the pale, silky fall of his hair. While she was still determined that here not be any further bedroom shenanigans until they were married, mistletoe was mistletoe.

Granted, that determination was a little harder to maintain when he licked his way into her mouth, deepening the kiss. The spicy-rich taste of him was downright addictive, and she carded her hands through his hair, drinking him in.

“ _Ew!_ Get a room, you two!”

Little Kevin’s voice made her wince, but his exaggerated gagging made her burst out laughing, her forehead pressed against Thranduil’s shoulder.

“A room not in this house!” Shannon called from the lounge. “You’re lucky it wasn’t Mam that caught you.”

“Your mother,” Gran said, descending the stairs, “is too much’v a prude for her own good. She shouldn’t’ve hung that mistletoe if she didn’t intend for it to get used.”

Lorna had a feeling Thranduil was rather offended by the insinuation that he’d try anything skeevy in a semi-public area. Sure enough, when she raised her head, she saw that the eyebrows had taken on Expression Number Forty-Seven – slightly pinched annoyance.

“Leave it,” she said quietly. “It’s just Edain being Edain.”

The e brows shifted to Expression Eight – exasperated amusement. She still hadn’t figured out how he could convey so much with so little.

“Out, the lot’v you,” Gran said. “I’ll not trust any’v you near the stove. And no shaking your presents.”

Well, it was _much_ too late for that. Then again, Gran probably knew it.

\--

Christmas morning was the one day of the year that Mairead allowed food into the lounge. After such a large meal the night before, breakfast was mostly just fresh rolls, jam, and whatever they had to drink.

She always let the kids tear into their first presents all at once, so they could be patient and take it in turns later. Four long boxes had appeared beside the tree overnight, wrapped in velvet rather than paper, but Lord Thranduil forbade the kids to open them just yet.

“Mistress Mairead, I am giving you your gift first, so that you will not attempt to murder me when you see theirs,” he said, handing her a box of beautifully carved wood as soon as she’d sat down.

“Why don’t I like the sound’v that?” she asked, running her fingers over it. It had been sanded silky-smooth.

“You will find out, in time. Open it.”

Open it she did, fumbling with the catch a little, and withdrew a large blanket of heavy velvet, the color shifting through shades of blue and green when she held it up to the light. It was easily the softest material she had ever felt, smelling of oak and sunshine.

“It is a bedcover,” he said, “though you could use it as some other thing, if you chose. It would keep you warm even if you were to sleep outside tonight.”

“Where did you get it?” she asked, resisting the urge to rube her face on it like a cat. “It’s bloody _gorgeous_.”

“It belonged to my mother,” he said, a trace of amusement in his tone. “It is nearly ten thousand years old.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “But it feels new.” Ten thousand years old? _Ten thousand?_ There were precious few museums who could boast anything like that.

He smirked a little. “As I told Lorna, when one lives forever, the things one makes must be made to endure.”

She ran her hands over it again, floored. This was a thing that pretty much pre-dated human civilization, and he had just _given_ it to her. 

Whatever he’d got the kids had to be bad indeed.

“Hold that, while your children open their gifts,” he ordered, as if reading her mind.

Naturally, the four of them dove for the boxes, which were each of a different length. They were unwrapped with surprising care, and when they were opened, they revealed –

“ _Swords?_ ” Mairead demanded. “You’ve given my children _swords_?”

“Blunt, for now,” Lord Thranduil said serenely. “It will be a decade or more before they might earn their edges.”

“Are you gonna teach us?” little Andrew asked. At six years old, Mairead didn’t want him anywhere _near_ a sword.

“Yes,” Lord Thranduil said. “It has been a very long time since I had anyone to teach.”

Damn him, he had to play the loneliness card, even if he hadn’t done it on purpose. “You and I are going to have _words_ later,” she said. “You lot, they stay in the boxes or I’m taking them away.”

“But _Mam_ –”

“I will take you all outside later,” Lord Thranduil said. “Listen to your mother. Mistress Bridie,” he added, “your gift is in your cottage.”

“I thought you were done breaking and entering,” Lorna said.

“It hardly counts as ‘breaking’ if the door is unlocked,” he said blandly. “Your gift is likewise absent. You will have to come to my home to receive it.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Not unduly,” he said. “At least, I do not think so.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” she muttered.

“I promise that it will not eat you.” He looked at the children. “Shannon, bring me your weapon.”

The girl looked at Mairead, who sighed. “Go on, then.”

Shannon held the sword very carefully. It wasn’t short, but it wasn’t overly long, either, as bright and shining as if it were brand new, with a slight curve to one end of the blade.

“This was the first of my son’s practice swords,” he said. “You will all use it, in time. Do not think of it as an object, but as part of yourself.”

“You have a son?” she asked, wide-eyed. “Another son?”

“Legolas,” he said calmly, betraying no emotion. “He sailed to Valinor, long ago.”

Not for nothing was Mairead mother to four children – she knew a lie when she heard one, even from someone as difficult to read as Lord Thranduil. It was all in the eyes – specifically, how they averted at the last second. But if this Legolas had not sailed (whatever the hell that even meant), he wasn’t here, either – 

Oh, God.

Well, now she _really_ couldn’t get mad about the swords. She didn’t know why it had never occurred to her that he’d probably had a family before, but it hadn’t. _Why_ did this damn man – Elf – have to keep making her heart break for him?

“How long did it take him to get good at it?” Shannon asked.

He smiled a little – a very little. “To gain Elven proficiency would take more years than you will live,” he said. “But I can teach you to be as good as any Edain who ever was.”

Mairead knew she should probably be worried by the light that entered her daughter’s eyes.

\--

Lorna had to explain the concept of a scrapbook, even as she snapped away with her mobile’s camera. (It had a _camera_. She’d known such things existed, but she’d never thought she’d actually have one.)

“I wish the Eldar made such things,” Thranduil said, running his fingers over the ultrasound. “Our memories do not fade, but I had never thought to keep all the objects of memory in anything but a box.”

She couldn’t decide if such a memory was a blessing or a curse. She’d deliberately forgot a great deal of her childhood; the thought of being unable to do that was kind of horrifying. He really was right – in some ways, humans really did have an advantage over Elves.

“Well, it’ll fill up fast enough,” she said, “and then we just get another, and another. Although they definitely won’t last a thousand years, let alone ten.”

“I still don’t understand how that can work,” Kevin said. “Even synthetic fabrics would break down long before then, and I doubt you had those.”

“We had ways,” Thranduil said. “Much of what we used no longer exists, but I have a kingdom filled with things that others ought to get something from.”

Lorna made a mental note to ask if any Elves could be talked into coming back – if there was even a way to reach them. The more she heard of Elves, the more she realized he needed company that wasn’t going to die on him in a heartbeat. And if he didn’t know how to get ahold of them, maybe this DMA people would. If there really was that much stuff lying around, there was no way even the entire village would be able to give all of it a home, and there was something weirdly forlorn about the thought of it just sitting around another few thousand years.

Unfortunately, she was almost pathologically incapable of being overly affectionate in front of her family, so she had to settle for giving his forearm a gentle, comforting squeeze. 

“Once we’re good with these, we can protect everyone in a zombie apocalypse,” Shannon said, carefully putting the sword back in the box.

Mairead groaned. “Lorna, I ought to kill you for putting that idea in their heads,” she said.

“I don’t see why,” Lorna retorted. “If you’re prepared for a zombie apocalypse, you’re prepared for anything.”

“Can one ever _truly_ be prepared for a zombie apocalypse?” Thranduil asked, entirely deadpan.

“Stop helping, and open your present,” Mairead ordered, pointing to a large red box, topped with a wad of curly ribbon the size of the twins’ heads.

Niamh brought it to him, and he inspected the ribbon before straight-up snapping it, opening the paper far too neatly.

When he opened the box, he found a black wool sweater, a pair of dark jeans, and a white button-down shirt, all neatly folded. A pair of heavy boots sat at the bottom.

“I know you’ve no plans to leave the village again, but on the off chance you have to, you’d best blend in,” Mairead said. “As much as you can, anyway.”

“These look as though they will fit suspiciously well,” he said, looking down at Lorna.

“I took your measurements while you were asleep,” she said. “Which was bloody hard, since you hardly ever _do_ sleep.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You know, Firieth Dithen, you so often call me creepy, and yet you do something like that.”

“It was for the greater good,” she said, attempting innocence.

“The greater good,” he echoed, right on cue. _Hot Fuzz_ had been part of his cinematic education.

“You’re both ridiculous,” Mairead said. “All right, you lot, pass out the rest’v the presents. Once we’ve disemboweled them, I’ve got to start dinner.”

What followed was a flurry of torn wrapping paper, accompanied by delighted shrieks from the kids (and one brief crying jag, when Shannon accidentally whacked Niamh with her cast). Lorna had ordered them all sorts of _Doctor Who_ gear off Amazon, and knitted each a Fourth Doctor scarf.

Kevin got a new electric drill; Mairead, a thick fluffy bathrobe of deep green velour. She’d made Gran a new shawl out of soft red cashmere yarn, and spent more on it than she probably ought to have.

It was, on the whole, downright surreal. Gran had made her little baby booties, for when the twins were actually big enough to wear them, and the kids, to her delight, had made them each an _X-Files_ onesie. Mairead had got her some fancy shampoo, reasoning that if she wasn’t going to cut her hair, she might as well maintain it better.

Yes, it was strange, and bemusing, and very loud – and possibly the simplest, sweetest experience she’d ever had. Yeah, she might be in hiding from the law, but she had her family, all of them, in a nice snug house in a sleepy village where everybody knew everybody else. Never, ever would she have thought she’d feel so very secure, and so very sure of her place in the world.

She only prayed it would last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course it won’t, Lorna, because I am a cruel writer – though I won’t be as mean to any of you as I am in _Auth uin Ettelëai_. That one has wound up so very much darker than I ever planned (but then, that usually happens when I throw Sharley into the mix. Any mix.)
> 
> Title means “Christmas Day” in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with light and love and mental champagne bubbles.


	18. Pleananna agus Comharthaí Droch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna gets her present, Thranduil is both sorrowful and a little creepy, and more outsiders hit Lasgaelen (and Lasgaelen hits back. Hard.)

New Year’s came upon them, silent as a ghost, the snow still showing no signs of thawing. Not until New Year’s Eve would Thranduil take Lorna into the forest for her present.

“It better not involve anything kinky,” Mairead warned, brandishing a ladle at him. No blunt cooking implement should look quite so menacing.

“Why are you so convinced I will seduce Lorna the first moment I am granted the opportunity?” he asked, more than a little insulted.

The look Mairead leveled at him was extremely unimpressed. “It’s what you did the day you met,” she said flatly.

She had a point, but _still_. “Even if Lorna and I wished to, it will be weeks yet before the healer would allow it. Though I fail to see how it is your concern anyway.”

“Ignore her,” Lorna said, shrugging on her coat. “She seems to have forgot the fact that I’m a bloody grown woman who can make my own damn choices.”

“Last time you made your own choices, you got knocked up,” Mairead said. 

Lorna rolled her eyes, sitting on a kitchen chair so she could jam her feet in her boots. “Can you not trust me? Christ, one bad decision and I’ll never live it down.”

Thranduil was somewhat disturbed that she would call their time together a _bad decision_ , but he knew she didn’t mean anything ill by it. The longer he spent around her, the more he realized that she and tact were not at all well acquainted. She had probably offended a great many people throughout her life, and not always had any idea.

“Oh, away with you,” Mairead said, rolling her eyes.

\--

Out Lorna and Thranduil went, into the thin, wintry sunlight. The frigid air had warmed enough that she no longer feared for the plumbing, though it had burst in the Market and several houses in the village.

She did still feel a bit stupid, having to be carried over the glittering snow like a bloody infant, but it would still be a while yet before her damn incision healed. At least she’d be back in something resembling shape by spring, and could get back to work a few days a week. Big Jamie said she could bring the twins with her, since everyone would want to be seeing them anyway.

The thought made her wonder something. “What did you do all day, before we met? You didn’t go out where anyone could see you, but I can’t imagine you wanting to stay underground all the time, either.” And if he really had just wandered those beautiful halls all alone, he would have gone mad long ago.

“I remembered,” he said, as they entered the trees. Here a path had been beaten into the snow, so here he set her down. “The memories of the Eldar are not like those of your people. We can inhabit them as thoroughly as we did when we made them. I have spent a very great deal of time in my own mind.”

That was fucking tragic, though at least she didn’t say so to his face. He probably wouldn’t see it that way at all, but any human would. What she said instead was, “The lot’v us will have to make sure you get new memories worth visiting.”

“You already have,” he said, linking his arm through hers, drawing her close. There was something subtly, inexplicably possessive in the action, and unease stirred at the back of her mind. Lorna loved Thranduil, even if she wasn’t properly _in_ love with him just yet, but she definitely didn’t like that facet of him. At least it _was_ subtle, and for now she’d chalk it up to cultural differences that would just have to be un-learned. Their relationship, fast though it had progressed, was still so new – they still had much to learn about each other, which was why that wedding dress was going to sit in her closet a while yet. Doubtless there were things about her that were going to rub him the wrong way, if they hadn’t already started.

“So what exactly is this surprise?” she asked. “You’ve kept me in bloody suspense long enough.”

“I must admit that I had help with it,” he said. “Some of it I simply did not know how to do myself.”

She wondered if she ought to be disturbed by that. Probably not, or so she hoped.

Her eyes traveled up to the tree-canopy, the bare branches an uneven lattice against the impossible blue of the sky. The forest was still largely alien to her, yet strangely, it didn’t _feel_ that way. Somehow, it felt more natural than Dublin had, and she’d lived in Dublin most of her life. Oh, she wouldn’t want to live here full-time – she was enjoying the modern world too much for that – but there was peace to be found here of a sort she had never before known.

Peace, and a strange, alien pain, though she suspected that was Thranduil projecting. She didn’t want to think about what life must still be like for him, in spite of his newly-acquired human family.

 _Saudade_ , she thought, the snow crunching under her boots. In prison, she’d had a lot of time to do a lot of reading, and one of the things she’d run across was the Portuguese word _saudade_ , which roughly translated to ‘to miss something so much it hurts’. Thranduil probably still had saudade, as the saying went, for the entirety of his civilization. 

They walked in companionable silence, though the ache in her incision grew. She was glad enough when they reached their destination – glad, and surprised.

In a glade she’d never seen before, there now stood a little cottage. This was not something that had been constructed overnight, either; the walls were river-rock, the roof properly shingled, with a large window on either side of the front door. It looked, at least from the outside, rather like Gran’s cottage.

Somebody had shoveled off the font step, and she stomped the snow off her boots before she opened the door – heavy, hand-hewn oak, with a latch rather than a knob, the metal cold even through her gloves.

The interior was cozy and warm, a fire burning low in the small fireplace on the north wall. The floor was stone, softened with an assortment of rugs, and a large day-bed, upholstered in dark velvet, sat before the fireplace. Facing it was, of all things, a huge TV, along with a DVD player, stereo, and bookshelf full of DVDs. 

“ _When_ did you manage this?” Lorna asked, a little helplessly.

“I began the cottage five months ago,” Thranduil said, shutting the door behind them. “Several of the villagers have helped me. There is a generator outside – you can continue my education without the interference of your sister, and the twins can join us in peace.”

“And here I just made you a scrapbook,” she said, shaking her head.

“You carried the twins for six months, and then had them cut out of your abdomen,” he said. “You have done more than enough work already.”

Well, when he put it _that_ way, she supposed he had a point.

“I have given you much that you did not ask for, Firieth Dithen,” he said. “I count myself fortunate that you did not skin me, when first I arrived in the pub.”

“I’ll admit, it did occur to me a few times while I was sicking up everything I tried to eat,” she said, poking him in the chest. “ _And_ I spent the first fortnight after I knew about them in constant terror I’d miscarry, since they were only half human.”

“Why did you not seek me out, if you were worried?” he asked, looking incredibly disturbed.

Honestly, Lorna wasn’t quite sure. “It never really occurred to me,” she said, sitting on the daybed. The mattress was wonderfully fat and squashy, and smelled faintly like fir. “Even if it had, I wouldn’t’ve figured you’d know much about human pregnancy. I probably would’ve hunted you down sooner or later, though. I’m glad you came and found me first.”

“Of course I did. Even if you’d skinned me, I would have had a chance to see if my present succeeded,” Thranduil said, with a truly maddening smirk.

She thwacked him on the arm. “Go fire up the generator,” she said, “and I’ll dig up a movie. Have we got _Dead Snow_ on that shelf?”

“I am not certain, nor am I sure I want to ask,” he said dryly.

“It’s a Norwegian zombie movie. Somebody who doesn’t speak English very well made a fan dub, and it’s _hilarious_.”

Thranduil shook his head. “Only you, Firieth Dithen,” he said. “Only you.”

\--

The air warmed incrementally, day by day, and the snow softened, turning into a soupy, slushy mess – but at least it didn’t melt all at once. One flood was enough.

The last few weeks had been a financial disaster for much of Ireland. Too many people had missed too much work during the worst of the storms, and Lasgaelen wasn’t the only place to suffer massive power cuts. Lorna was glad the village was well out of it, and that they’d had a place to go and wait the nasty parts out in comfort.

The twins grew at a rage that she found downright alarming, but Thranduil told her it would actually be considered slow for Elf children, who were able to run and sing by the time they were a year old. Their dominant human half seemed to be hobbling that drastically, but it was still unsettlingly fast for humans. While it didn’t look likely that they’d be walking any time soon, they were, at a little over a month old, already trying to crawl. It wasn’t _working_ – they mostly only succeeded in dragging themselves around a bit – but the fact that they were doing it at all made her nervous. They could sit up, if they had help, and would take the world in with big green eyes that were still far too knowing for such young children.

Lorna grieved it a little. Kids were only kids once; she didn’t want them to grow up too soon. Thranduil didn’t know just how this would continue progressing, but he did assure her that they wouldn’t be adults overnight. Once they reached the mobile stage, they’d probably slow down, and age at roughly the same rate as fully human children. 

“Look at it this way,” he said, “they will need diapers for far less time than an Edain child.”

“Okay, _that_ I could happily live with,” she said, “but what’ll we do when they’re school age?” Lasgaelen was too small to support a school of its own; most of the kids went to schools in Kildare, which wouldn’t exactly be safe for the twins.

“We will teach them ourselves,” he said, picking up Saoirse. The sun shone bright and warm through the window in Lorna’s room, and the twins were happily playing in it. “The Eldar had nothing like your schools – we learned from our parents, or from tutors.”

Lorna grimaced. “I’m the wrong person to be doing that.” She’d left school without even her Junior Certificate, and though she’d done a lot of reading in prison, it was hardly a comprehensive education. Her knowledge of history was spotty, and in maths she couldn’t do anything beyond basic division. As for science, or Irish government, she was entirely at sea. Not that the twins would need to _know_ about the Irish government, but still. It was the principle of the thing. “I was pants at school, and I hated it anyway.”

“All the more reason not to send them to one,” Thranduil said. “I still know little of your world. The four of us will simply have to learn together.”

Somehow, she wasn’t sure that would end terribly well. “Well, now I’m recovered and we’ve got time, I’ve got to start teaching you to read English,” she said. “It’ll make using the Internet a lot easier to use. You can get as addicted to YouTube as I am.”

His expression at that statement made her burst out laughing.

\--

While the village slowly began setting itself to rights, Thranduil spent the days he was not with his family doing work of his own.

He had little doubt that the Edain would lapse back into their comfortable lives, forgetting his unease about the future. That was not something he – or they – could afford, but he would not tax them with it yet. If and when there came a time they would have to live in his halls permanently, for however long, all must be made ready.

There was far more than enough space, but the halls had been all but frozen in time for centuries, a monument to a civilization now lost. The hundreds of chambers and dwellings within them had been shut up and abandoned, even by him, their contents not disturbed since their owners either sailed or perished. Some of them would need to be opened again, and yet doing so was far more painful than he would have thought.

Thranduil had long since grown used to the silence and emptiness of his home, of being the only corporeal being to wander its paths and bridges. The Lingerers paid him no mind, and he gave them little heed. His life, however, had been largely routine, confined to a few select places, and now that he wandered the long-disused corridors, old grief stabbed at him.

This wing had once belonged to various nobles, their quarters as large as his own. Wood-Elves might not have mingled a great deal with outsiders, but they were very social among themselves, and there had always been people coming and going, the air alive with chatter and music. Now there was only silence, the large oak doors shut.

The Edain of Lasgaelen were unused to real luxury, and such accommodations might make living underground easier for them. The rooms were so vast that a lack of windows might not bother them so much as it would in a smaller apartment. They would wish to bring their own things, so as to make the halls feel less alien, and the last imprints of those who had once dwelt here would be erased.

The door he opened now led to the chambers of Lady Silwen and Lord Arphenion. Both had been his counselors, and a rather odd match; she had been ruthless, intelligent, and fiercely loyal, while her husband was more frivolous and easily distracted. Still, they had been happy, and that happiness had imbued itself into the very walls.

No dust accumulated in his halls; when he lit the lanterns, the room still looked as though they had only just left. Silwen had favored reds and golds, and the sitting-room was decked out in a dozen shades of autumn. Two settees and an assortment of armchairs were clustered around the empty fireplace, upholstered in burgundy velvet, surrounding a low oak table.

Silwen had been a collector of trinkets, especially things wrought of silver, and they still gleamed where sat on mantel and shelves, untarnished by the centuries. The faintest ghost of rosewater lingered in the air, undisturbed by the passage of time.

The pair would not, he was sure, mind anyone moving in; they had taken all that had truly meant anything with them to Valinor. Doubtless she had given their dwelling in Aman the same treatment.

Thranduil ran his fingers over the mantelpiece, the wood silky-smooth beneath them. _Why_ had he lingered so long? Why did the thought of sailing fill him with such horror? _Something_ had kept him here all this time, and he still didn’t know what. His lands had diminished – _he_ had diminished – yet he could not leave, for all there had been, until recently, nothing to stay for.

He still didn’t know why he’d been so very drawn to Lorna – why he really answered her unwitting summons that day in the woods. She was a stranger, yes, and a grieving one, and her eyes belonged nowhere near a human face, but was more than that. She had offered him something for nothing, which was unprecedented, but that would not otherwise have been entirely enough. Something in her had called to him, and still called, and he doubted she was any more aware of it than he was.

They would both, he was sure, discover it in time. He was rapidly discovering that there was no such thing as an ordinary Edain – at least, not in Lasgaelen – but there was something about her that was, while not precisely extraordinary, different in no way he could define. It had to be why her fëa was brighter, why it shone with such brilliance.

He was still glad, in a sense, glad that she was unwilling yet to marry him on her terms; if she was ever to do it, he wanted her to be sure. He truly had given her much she had not asked for, and he really was lucky she’d wanted anything to do with him later. Perhaps she would never wish to wed him by the standards of her people, but even if she didn’t, he would not be parted from her. She was his now, and he was hers, whether or not she saw it that way.

But he couldn’t think on it now – he had to make accommodation for several Edain families that had more children than most Eldar. The elder were simply going to need their own quarters. By the time whatever was to happen actually occurred, they might well be grown anyway.

A certain dark part of him looked forward to it. Once the villagers had called home all their family who lived abroad, his halls would be alive again. They could wait in here while whatever cataclysm befell the world worked itself out – and, if it took a generation or two, they might not wish to leave the only life they ever knew even when it was over. His people would remain _his_ people, for however long this world lasted.

He hoped that would prove the case. Solitude had suited Thranduil for hundreds of years, but he never wanted to be alone again.

\--

The temperature warmed enough that Lorna no longer feared taking the twins out of the house, so Mairead drove her and them to town. She was beginning to go stir-crazy, and she had a hazy idea that the twins ought to be exposed to different environments.

Seeing the village so buried in snow was still strange, even if it _had_ turned to slush in the road. The pavements were all shoveled, so Mairead had no trouble manhandling the two baby-carriers into the pub; unfortunately, Lorna still wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than five pounds, so she couldn’t haul them around herself.

The pub was every bit as crowded as she’d expected, but the atmosphere was strangely tense, so much so that she almost turned right around and left. The lights were always relatively low, but now it was downright dim, the usual hum and chatter almost entirely absent. The tables, for some reason, had been shoved aside, leaving a lopsided clear space at the center of the room, and a number of the shelves behind the bar were in total disarray, bottles knocked out of place or missing altogether. That wasn’t at all like Big Jamie, who was one of the more meticulous people Lorna knew.

“What in bloody hell is this?” Mairead muttered. For all she was the Responsible One, she was insatiably curious, and even worse than Lorna at letting things alone.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” Lorna said. “Stick the twins back in the car, will you? It’s warm enough that they’ll be all right for a few minutes.”

Stick them back Mairead did, locking the doors and drawing herself up to her full, rather impressive height. There was something weirdly combative in her stance, which baffled Lorna, for her sister was not, unless she was _really_ angry, a combative person, and there was as yet nothing to actually anger her. Yes, the air of unease was downright palpable, but any number of things could have caused it.

Dai, his face red from cold, drink, or both, sat nearest the door, and turned to them when they entered. “You might want to get Lord Thranduil,” he said quietly. “We’ve got a problem. Four’v them, actually.” The skin around his left eye was swollen, as though someone had thrown a punch at him – Lorna had no doubt he’d have a fantastic bruise by tomorrow morning. Unlike Mick and Alec, Dai wasn’t the sort to pick a fight; he was an apathetic drunk, not a belligerent one, and more likely to evacuate in the event of a brawl. He had a large mug of beer in front of him, but it seemed he’d barely touched it, which was also bloody weird.

“What the hell does _that_ mean?” Mairead demanded, before Lorna could say a thing.

“It means we’ve got visitors we don’t want,” Siobhan said, from the other side of the door. Her blonde hair was half out of her ponytail, her knuckles scraped raw and red. “Now that the roads’re clear, some eejit’s sent more people from Dublin. Either Lord Thranduil’s got to do his mind voodoo again, or we’ve got to lock them up somewhere.” She took a delicate sip of beer, then belched.

Lorna had known they hadn’t seen the end of _that_ nonsense, but she’d hoped they’d have more time. _Dammit_. “Where are they now?” she asked, not certain she wanted to know the answer.

“Tied up in Big Jamie’s office,” Mick said. His words were a bit muffled by the wad of red-stained napkins he held to his lower lip. “Bastards didn’t go down easy, I’ll tell you that.”

Mairead groaned, but Lorna burst out laughing before she could help it. She wished she’d been here to see _that_ brawl – sure, cops had all sorts of hand-to-hand training, but they’d been up against a number of drunks who could get damned violent when they wanted to. It was only a wonder they hadn’t smashed the pub apart. How the hell they’d fit four adults in that tiny office, she didn’t know, but she rather wanted to see it.

“With all this snow, Dublin’s got to be a bloody mess,” she said, stealing a sip of Dai’s untouched beer. “I can’t believe they’d spare four policemen all this way over a _stolen ambulance_. Even knocking out that poor bugger with the door shouldn’t be enough for them to devote that many cops to a manhunt.”

Dai shifted uneasily in his seat. “They’re not cops,” he said. “We don’t know _what_ they are, but they’re not cops. If this wasn’t, you know, the real world, I’d think they were Men in Black, without the black. They were asking a lot’v questions about things they shouldn’t know about – not Lord Thranduil, but about the rest’v us. And they were really bloody pushy when they asked where we’d all been during the worst’v the snow. We tied them up because we didn’t know what else to do.”

Now it was Lorna’s turn to groan. She really didn’t like the thought of Thranduil playing hob with anyone else’s head – especially after what had happened to the last two – but they couldn’t just be let go. Just how good was he at planting false memories? If they all left here thinking they had actual answers, maybe they’d not come back. “I’ll go get him,” she sighed. “But then I want to talk those fuckers myself.”

“ _I’ll_ go get him,” Mairead said. “You still can’t walk through all that snow on your own, if you actually want your incision to heal properly. I’ll take the twins home while I’m at it – Shannon can look after them.”

That sounded like the best idea. Even if all their prisoners were tied up, she’d rather they not have a chance to even see the twins. “I’ll see the pair’v you soon,” Lorna said, heading for the office door. She needed to know just what the hell these people were even looking for, and she’d rather Thranduil not have to go digging through their heads like a kid after a cereal prize to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehe, of course their idyllic days couldn’t last. They are in fact under the scrutiny of more than just the Dublin police department now, and their unwelcome guests will not be nearly as easy to get rid of.
> 
> Title means “Plans and Bad Signs” in Irish. As ever, your reviews sustain my brain.


	19. Suaitheadh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the four invaders regret their life choices, Thranduil creeps out _everyone_ , and they all realize they don’t have many options.

When Lorna saw what Big Jamie’s office contained, it was all she could do not to laugh, in spite of the trouble they were all in.

Three men and a woman were all tied to chairs, jammed so close together no one could hope to walk between them, the teetering piles of paperwork on the desk threatening to collapse on them at any moment. The men looked so alike it was downright creepy – they were all in their early forties or so, fit and dark-haired, their facial features unsettlingly uniform. The woman looked a little older, maybe in her early fifties, her auburn hair littered here and there with grey. Her face almost looked too symmetrical to be real – or would have, if not for her swollen jaw. Siobhan must have been the one to lamp her out, since none of the men would have done it.

Lorna wondered if they had any idea what they’d walked into. All of them wore suits in varying shades of grey, the sort of posh thing you only saw on lawyers on TV, though they couldn’t exactly be called immaculate at the moment: whatever brawl had gone on in the bar had rumpled them considerably, and one of the men had a streak of what had to be peanut dust down the left side of his coat, and a few errant nuts in his hair. God did she wish she’d been around for _that_.

“You shouldn’t’ve come,” she said, squeezing in and easing the door shut behind her. “Why _are_ you here? Unless that ambulance is secretly a TARDIS or something, it’s nowhere near important enough to drag out people who dress like you.”

“You know why we’re here, Lorna Donovan,” one of the would-be triplets said. His accent wasn’t Irish, but English, and she wondered what he was doing so far from home. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised he knew her name.

“I _really_ don’t,” she said, and it was true; she had no idea what they thought they were looking for. “There’s nothing in Lasgaelen for the likes of you.”

“Someone in this village can manipulate human memory,” the woman said flatly, her expression so bland it had to be cultivated on purpose. “We want a word with them.” _She_ at least sounded Irish, even if she had to have come from the North.

Yeah, that wouldn’t be happening even if it wasn’t Thranduil involved. Lorna had, by now, seen damn near all the _X-Men_ movies; she had a pretty good idea of what would happen even to a human with that kind of power. “You’ll get one,” she said, leaning back against the door, “for all the good it’ll do you. You do realize how stupid coming after someone who can theoretically _wipe your memory_ is, right?”

They said nothing, and her eyes narrowed. It _was_ stupid, blatantly so, and she doubted anyone who dressed like this ever made such obvious mistakes. Was one – or all – of them wearing a wire or something? Were her words being recorded, or broadcasted back to someone whose memory couldn’t be tampered with?

Her eyes narrowed, and she smirked – a distinctly Thranduil-type smirk. She was about to make four people very, very uncomfortable. Opening the door, she stuck her head out. “Siobhan!” she called. “Help me strip this lot. If they’ve got bugs or wires or whatever, we’re getting rid’v them.”

Siobhan’s rusty laugh carried all the way through the pub. “Not a request I get every day. Give me a minute.”

Lorna looked back at the quartet. While the lot of them would probably be able to clean out a poker tournament, they all looked faintly unsettled. “Welcome to Lasgaelen,” she said. “I hope you’ve not worn knickers you’ll be ashamed’v.”

\--

At this point, Thranduil would not be averse to an earthquake, or a flood, or _something_ that would keep these unwelcome intruders away from Lasgaelen. 

He had been on his way to Lorna’s house when a livid Mairead intercepted him. Two high spots of color stood on her cheeks, though he wasn’t certain if they were from cold or sheer rage. _His_ temper certainly boiled when she explained herself.

“They’re not like the cops,” she said. “Everyone in the pub fears they’re something worse. Those bloody Americans found out about you somehow – if they did, others could, too.”

 _That_ was not a thought he needed. Clearly, wiping memories was not enough, and Lorna was right; if he did it to many times, someone was going to notice. It sounded as though they had already.

He followed Mairead to her vehicle, wishing he had Galadriel’s mental precision. _She_ could have constructed a person entirely new memories, but Thranduil doubted that was within his power.

Really, he wished he could just take this entire village underground and stay there.

Mairead’s driving wasn’t quite as bad as it had been on the trip to the hospital, but he was still grateful that it was a short trip into the village. Cars were one aspect of the modern world he would happily do without, and he exited hers as fast as he could, leaving her to trail after him through the pub door. What he saw when he opened it, however, halted him in his tracks.

Lined up in front of the bar were three men and a woman, all tied to chairs, and all, for some reason, stripped to their undergarments. The scent of burning fabric told him what had happened to their clothes; Lorna was merrily stirring the blazing fire with the poker.

“Lorna,” he said, pained, “do I _want_ to ask?”

“I had to,” she said, poking away. “They might’ve been recording us. What do we do with them?”

He looked at the little group, all of whom stared back, wide-eyed. “That,” he said, “remains to be seen. It depends upon just what they were looking for.”

“Nobody’s got much out’v them so far,” Big Jamie said. “Just a lot’v weird questions and a superiority complex so strong I could bloody _taste_ it.”

Thranduil tilted his head to one side, scrutinizing them closely. He knew full well how much he unnerved Edain who were unused to him; if they _had_ somehow known of him before they came here, he could make them regret it without touching their minds at all.

He dragged over a chair and sat facing them, summoning every bit of the imperiousness he had possessed when he’d been a king with an actual kingdom. Once upon a time, he had daunted even other Eldar; these four didn’t stand a chance.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Be warned, I will know if you lie.”

They exchanged glances, and he really shouldn’t have taken any satisfaction in their pallor, but he couldn’t help it.

“We were sent to see if you were real,” the man on the left said. To his credit, his voice was quite steady, but sweat had gathered at his temples. 

“And what would you have done, had I allowed you to leave with that information?” Thranduil asked, his voice deceptively calm. “Who sent you?”

He wasn’t terribly surprised that none of them answered. Doubtless they wished to protect whoever employed them.

“Which of you has led this little…journey?” he asked.

“I did,” the man nearest the woman said, swallowing hard. They might have come looking, but it was patently obvious they hadn’t expected to _find_ anything. “I was told to see what – if any – information might be had about you, and report back.”

He was lying. Thranduil could smell it, even through the funk of fear – it was not a grand lie, but lie it was. “Lorna,” he said, not looking away from the man, “why have you burnt all their clothes?”

“Siobhan and I wanted to make sure they didn’t have any bugs on them – listening devices,” she clarified. “They wouldn’t’ve just come out here unprepared – not if they actually expected to find anything.”

“That would have been unwise,” he said, with a grim smile. He reached out a hand and touched the man’s face, ignoring his flinch. “Be still and this will not hurt.”

“Don’t,” the man said, little more than a whimper.

“Much though I would like to, I will not harm you,” Thranduil assured him. “I seek not to wipe your memory, but to read it. Now hold still.” The words were a command few could disobey, and this man was not among them.

_Once again, Thranduil cursed his lack of precision. He had to waste a great deal of time searching through this man’s – Connor, his name was Connor Doyle – unremarkable childhood, skimming over what little personal life he had. Not until he discovered the most recent memories – quite by accident – did Thranduil linger._

_He had by now seen enough television to recognize an office when he saw one. This one was so bland he suspected it was calculated: the carpet, furniture, and even the_ walls _were various shades of flat grey, entirely unadorned._

_Within the memory, Connor stood facing an oversized desk, empty save for a lamp and a small stack of paper. Behind it sat a woman in a dark grey suit, her short, severely-cut hair a mix of brown and grey. Her hazel eyes were some of the coldest he had ever seen._

_“If you see him, do not engage,” she said. “If he truly is responsible for the policemen, we know what he can do to a human mind. For now, I just want confirmation or denial of his presence.”_

_Connor didn’t tell her aloud that he thought she was completely barking. Still, she wouldn’t be sending him out on a fool’s errand; if she suspected something, she was likely at least partially right. There were whispers of things among senior agents, things that somebody obviously believed in._

_He would carry out his assignment, mad though it seemed. Even if there wasn’t an Elf – an actual bloody_ Elf – _in Lasgaelen, someone there had managed to destroy the minds of two policemen. His pragmatic mind leaned more toward chemical warfare, but either way, he’d find out._

_“I hope you’re sending me with backup,” he said. The long drive would be utterly boring by himself._

_“I am – and you’ll have surveillance equipment. Question everyone you can, but don’t approach the woods,” she added firmly. “Not yet.”_

_Connor knew he shouldn’t ask, but he couldn’t help it. “How does anyone even know about this supposed Lord Thranduil?”_ And why in God’s name would anyone _believe_ in him? _he thought, but knew better than to add. This was the twenty-first bloody century, not the Dark Ages._

_“My grandfather grew up in Lasgaelen,” she said, folding her hands on the desk. “He told us stories about the mysterious Lord Thranduil when we were children. Of course none of us believed them, but recent events have caused me to question that. He would not be the first…unusual…thing I have seen, but any more information is well above your pay grade._

_That was not at all what Thranduil needed to hear – any of it._

He disengaged from Connor’s mind, neither wanting nor needing to see any more. “It is as well you burned their clothes,” he said. “Others were in fact listening.”

“I fucking knew it,” Lorna said, crossing the floor to him. At some point, a number of the villagers had crowded around – as there was no way they could have seen what he was doing, they were likely only there to unnerve their captives. Judging by how profusely the four were sweating, it was working.

“So what do we _do_ with them?” Big Jamie asked. “You going to wipe their memories, too?”

“No,” Thranduil said, rising. “It would seem the Edain mind is too fragile for me to be certain I can do something so precise safely. Lorna, your grandmother must call the DMA – with luck, they might have someone who can help. These four will simply have reside in my dungeons until someone arrives.” He smirked. “It has been over two thousand years since anyone has graced them.”

“More will come,” the woman said, her voice unsteady. “When we don’t return to report, more will come looking for us.”

“They will find nothing,” he said, with a haughty tilt of his head.

“They’ll find the village,” she insisted. “You don’t want what imprisoning us would bring down upon you.”

The threat, wavering though it was, filled him with a brief but transient impulse to break her neck. “No,” he said, “I do not think they will.”

“You can stop a squadron, can you?” the man at the end asked, but his tone wasn’t as caustic as he no doubt intended.

Thranduil smiled, slow and predatory. “I will not have to,” he said. “They will not find the village.”

\--

Lorna would freely admit that that smile of Thranduil’s creeped her _right_ the fuck out. While there were times he could seem rather alien, this was something else entirely.

“A word?” she said, grabbing his arm and all but hauling him back into Big Jamie’s office. Standing by that raging fire had made her sweat, but it rapidly cooled into unpleasant stickiness in the room’s relative chill. “What the hell does _that_ mean?”

The look he gave her unsettled her yet further. It was protective, yes, but the arrogance of his interrogation still lingered in his pale eyes. “Exactly what I said,” he told her. “The Eldar are not like Harry Potter, Dilthen Ettelëa, but you know we are not without magic of our own. This land is still _my_ land, and powerful Elves have always had a certain amount of command over their environment. Elrond kept his entire valley hidden.”

“ _How?_ ” The space was too cramped for pacing, but she tried anyway. “Thranduil, this isn’t the Middle Ages. Lasgaelen might be out’v the way, but it’s on bloody Google Maps – it can’t just _disappear_.”

Now his look was slightly chilling. “Lorna, once upon a time, this entire _island_ was mine,” he said. “If I chose, I could throw it into chaos with illusion, but it will not come to that. The DMA will have a gentler hand in these matters.”

Lorna sure as hell hoped so. She didn’t think he understood just how unworkable his plan was in the modern world. Lasgaelen might be tiny, but if it just dropped off the map – however the hell that would even work – people were going to notice. He was going to need more of an education to actually grasp that one.

“And if they can’t help?” she asked. “What’ll you do then?”

“I do not know,” he said, with a thoughtfulness that was a little dreadful. “Let us hope we need not find out. You all are my people, Lorna. I will allow no harm to come to you.”

On that, she believed him. What she was rapidly beginning to fear was just what he’d to do ensure it. She was hardly going to complain about someone that willing to look after this lot, but he would he really banjax _all of Ireland_ to do it?

Probably not. She _hoped_ not, anyway, because both he and those DMA people had said using large amounts of magic was dangerous – but what if it wouldn’t actually take that much to do it? She couldn’t imagine that it wouldn’t, but it wasn’t as though she knew a damn thing about it.

At least this probably wouldn’t be too much, or he wouldn’t be considering it. Christ, she wished she’d just been able to have the twins here. None of this would be happening if she had.

“Don’t take it too far,” she said. “This isn’t _The X-Files_ – if it gets bad, I’ll go live in the forest full-time. The twins’re healthy enough that I think it’d be safe, and the government’s not going to make anyone disappear for ‘questioning’ in this day and age.” Not people who legally existed, anyway. Nobody could prove it if they walked off with Thranduil, but the rest of them had a paper trail a lifetime long.

“If I must, I will take it as far as I can get away with,” Thranduil said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “A kingdom does not last along as mind did without a certain measure of ruthlessness. I was not, however, in the habit of harming innocents. The fact that I could destroy this island does not mean I would do it.”

Lorna hoped he meant it. She really, really did.

\--

While Mairead could see the wisdom in locking these four up, it still made her uneasy.

She wasn’t afraid Lord Thranduil would mistreat them – even with what little she knew of him, he didn’t seem that sort – but the word ‘dungeon’ was an uncomfortable one. It conjured unwelcome images of shackles and chains and darkness, even though she couldn’t imagine a place as beautiful as those halls have something so nasty. Surely not. Right?

Though Lord Thranduil was not like the stories she’d been raised with, the fact remained that she’d _been_ raised with them. Yes, they seemed to have been born of superstition, but had they been entirely? Was there some measure, however small, of truth in them? She’d seen his expression, and it sent anxiety twisted in her gut.

She hoped they were nothing but idle tales, because if they weren’t, there was nothing any of them could do about it.

There was something to be done _now_ , at least – if this lot were to go to the halls, they’d need proper clothes. She didn’t think anybody needed to be marching through the snow in their knickers. It was unlikely there was anyone in the whole village who could be that cruel.

 _Poor bastards_ , she thought, heading back out into the cold. Yes, their presence here could be disastrous, but the pub-goers had probably scared them shitless even before she and Lord Thranduil got there. 

Oh well. She’d gather up some of her clothes and Kevin’s, and they’d just have to wing it from there.

\--

Though the show was over, the pub-goers lingered anyway, drinking another round while they were at it.

Big Jamie, however, tidied things up on auto-pilot, unable to join in. He knew Lord Thranduil meant well, but clearly neither he nor anyone else had thought of just how many problems his idea would cause.

If he did somehow manage to hide Lasgaelen, there would be no deliveries: once they’d gone through what they had, they’d starve, unless those DMA people could handle that, too. And would that magic, or whatever it was, hide them from electronic surveillance? Somehow, Jamie doubted it. They _had_ to come up with a better plan, but he sure as hell couldn’t think of one.

They could, in theory, all move back into the halls, but that still left the food problem – and he doubted there were many who would want to anyway. Oh, it was beautiful in there, but they were all too fond of the comforts of the modern world to want to give them up permanently. 

He felt horrible for even thinking it, but he almost wanted some disaster to fall in the world outside – something to distract whoever was so interested in them. A tsunami, or the discovery of some terrorist cell or other. Were his Nan alive, she’d clip him round the ear for even entertaining the idea, but he couldn’t help it.

 _Something_ needed to happen, or they were all in a hell of a lot of trouble.

\--

Pat Kennedy had been bored, but now he was getting nervous.

He’d parked at the far edge of the village, with instructions to wait two hours for his passengers to return. It was approaching the end of the second, and there was no sign of any of them. He’d been told that, in the extremely unlikely event they didn’t turn up at the appropriate time, he was to leave them behind. It was not a scenario he’d thought at all likely, and now he was torn.

Leaving his own people in potential danger went against every bit of his training, orders or no orders. This village gave him the creeps – it looked ordinary enough, but there was something about it, something intangible yet twisted, that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just take off – not until he had some idea just what the others were facing. And if he got himself caught…well, at least his conscience wouldn’t bother him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be careful what you wish for, Jamie and Thranduil. Be very, very careful.
> 
> Fortunately for this quartet, the villagers aren’t cruel, and neither is Thranduil, for all he can be so intimidating. The villagers are right, though: he has no idea how many problems cutting Lasgaelen off would create. He’s still woefully unprepared for dealing with the modern world.
> 
> So, I might be reaching a bit with the “elf rulers can affect their environment” thing, but I don’t think I am. Eöl is explicitly said to have trapped Aredhel in Nan Elmoth through magic, and while I don’t believe it’s ever stated that Elrond kept his valley that way, Rivendell was pretty damn big, and I can’t imagine it could have been hidden with anything _but_ magic. Yeah, Mirkwood was a mess, but Mirkwood also had Dol Guldur parked on its doorstep, and Thranduil didn’t have an Elven Ring to help him.
> 
> Also, I known that Tolkien’s Legendarium was meant to take place very, very distantly in Earth’s past, but that thought has always made me uncomfortable, because it comes with a healthy dose of Fridge Horror: there is, obviously, no archaeological reference nor record of Gondor, or Rohan, or any of the human kingdoms of Middle-Earth, nor does the continent resemble any modern land mass. 
> 
> _Something_ had to have happened between then and now, something so devastating and cataclysmic that it not only re-wrote geography, but so thoroughly wiped out human civilization that we got knocked into the Stone Age, and left no trace at all of what had once been. The only thing in the books to have managed that was the War of Wrath, which was sixty-odd years of Valar against Valar, so _what the hell happened this time_?
> 
> Title means “Disturbance” in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my brain, and let me know if I’m still going in a decent direction or not.


	20. Athrú Ag teacht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which some of the government goons don’t realize their mission is a farce, Bridie has no use for magic _or_ technology, Lorna and Thranduil have a hell of a time not jumping each other’s bones, and the DMA gets involved.

A whole knot of villagers manhandled their quartet of outsiders to Lord Thranduil’s halls, and Mairead was relieved to find that the dungeons were nothing at all like she’d feared – indeed, if not for the bars on the cell doors, she wouldn’t have known what they were at all.

She still had no clue how Lord Thranduil lit these caves, but even these depths were as bright as everywhere else she’d seen, the pale stone of the walls almost gold. Even down here there were waterfalls, their misty spray chill when they passed one. She didn’t feel quite so uncomfortable at the idea of locking this lot down here, though she still hoped they wouldn’t be here long – and that this wouldn’t get any messier than it already was.

A glance at the others told her that a few shared her unease, Big Jamie among them. Some of the others, though…Dai looked worryingly excited, all but bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was young, and thick as a plank in most respects – he likely had no idea how bad this could get.

Then again, Mairead wasn’t sure _she_ did, either. Nor did she want to.

They had to stock up on food while they had a chance – not from the Market, but from outside. She’d take the Explorer to Kildare straightaway, and be back by nightfall – and if the others were smart, they’d do the same.

\--

Despite his best intentions, Pat didn’t manage to rescue anyone. As soon as he saw the group of people marching his fellow agents along Main Street, he legged it for his car – and promptly got hit by an ancient, rusty Dodge Dart.

There was, unfortunately, no snow to cushion his fall, and he crashed to the pavement in a heap. He was dimly aware of something snapping, and far more _urgently_ aware of the pain that bloomed like a burning flower through his left leg.

Mercifully, he hadn’t hit his head, but the pain made his vision blur anyway, his jaw clamping down on a scream. He was never going to live this down, ever, but lying in the middle of this frozen road, he couldn’t find it in him to care.

“Oh, bloody hell,” someone sighed.

When his eyes focused, he found a wizened old woman standing over him, peering down with grey eyes that were equal parts worried and irate. “You stay there while I ring for the doctor, young man. Didn’t your mam ever tell you not to play in the street?”

Pat shut his eyes. No, he was _never_ living this down.

\--

John Monagle wasn’t worried yet, but much longer and he would be.

The group’s comms had gone dark, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything terrible, and it wasn’t enough for him to order an extraction. This was supposed to be a low-key operation, one that wouldn’t ruffle too many civilian feathers; four people asking questions wouldn’t rate the news, but a larger group, especially if things got violent, would.

He chewed a sunflower seed, spitting the shell into the bin beside his desk. Pat wasn’t answering his calls, and that _was_ a little worrying. He wasn’t meant to leave the car for any reason – but then, he’d have to take a leak sooner or later.

John really didn’t want to have to pass this up to his supervisor. If it was a false alarm, he’d never hear the end of it, and really, how much trouble could they get themselves into in a sleepy little village?

No, he’d wait. The five of them were more than capable of taking care of themselves.

\--

It was edging into afternoon by the time Lorna and Thranduil made it to Gran’s. They’d got their prisoners settled, fed, and reassured that nobody was going to torture them or poke them with sticks, and then Mairead and who knew how many others headed for the supermarket in Kildare.

Maybe Lorna was utterly mad, but she was somehow a little excited by this whole idea. Oh, it was probably going to end in utter disaster, but when she’d been a teenager, her entire life had been two steps from disaster, and she’d _loved_ it. She had a safe place to take the twins – no matter what came at the lot of them, nothing would happen to her children. If things got messy aboveground…well, excitement was probably better than terror.

Gran didn’t look any too pleased to see them, but she’d likely watched that whole procession into the woods. She let them both into her cozy kitchen with a scowl, and put the kettle on the stove on what seemed like auto-pilot. From the scent of it, she’d been baking break, and Lorna’s stomach abruptly reminded her she hadn’t eaten since seven-thirty in the morning.

“We need to call those DMA people, Gran,” she said, since Thranduil didn’t seem to be in any hurry to speak. “I know you’ve got their number.”

“Outsiders,” Gran sniffed, dragging over a stool so she could reach the compartment above the fridge. “How many more can we expect?”

Lorna exchanged a glance with Thranduil. “We don’t know yet,” she said. “We hope – Jesus, Gran!”

The old lady had pulled a double-barrel shot gun out of the compartment, shoving aside a row of very dusty tins to do so. An equally dusty box of shells came next, a box that looked older than Lorna herself.

“Outsiders,” Gran repeated, cracking the stock and shoving a shell into each barrel. The snap when she closed it sounded like a harbinger of doom.

“Is that thing even _legal_?” Lorna asked, a little helplessly.

“It was when your grandda had it. Anyone comes sniffing around my place, they’ll get both barrels in the arse.”

To Lorna’s immense surprise, Thranduil sat in a kitchen chair and _laughed_. It was a rich, deep sound, so seldom heard it always surprised her. “Mistress Bridie, I wish I had an army like you,” he said. “Your government would flee in terror.”

Lorna groaned. “Don’t encourage her. Gran, we really do need the phone number.”

Gran pulled a tablet out of a counter drawer, slapping it onto the table. “Good luck,” she said. “I think you’ll need it.”

Her phone was actually the rotary sort, which Lorna only had a hazy idea how to use. Unfortunately, she was only marginally more knowledgeable about her mobile, but she worked it out anyway, dialing before she handed it to Thranduil. When it came to talking on the phone, she was utter crap, stumbling over her words. She blamed it on lack of practice, because she wasn’t like that otherwise.

There was something a bit _wrong_ about the sight of him with such a modern piece of technology stuck to his ear. She still thought the same about him using her laptop, too.

“You’ve got to give them your name, and that it’s Bridie Monaghan who gave you the number,” Gran said, taking the kettle off when it began to sing.

Thranduil did as instructed, and Lorna was almost annoyed that _he_ seemed to have no problem at all on the phone. She helped Gran fix the tea, listening with one ear as he explained their unfortunate situation.

“If there are any of you who can do what I dare not, it would be wisest to send them,” he said. “And if you have anyone in the Irish government who can deal with this state of affairs, that would also be for the best.” He paused, listening. “I do not know. If we have enough provisions, we can wait it out in my halls, but the villagers were not want to stay there indefinitely. Their world is too different from mine. Should they wish it, they might need to be re-located for a time.”

Christ, Lorna hoped not, but she could see it happening. They’d lived all their lives in the stable, modern world – they didn’t know anything else, and they wouldn’t be giving it up by choice. The adults might be all right as long as the booze lasted, but the kids were addicted to their computers and gaming systems. They’d only be able to explore for so long before they got bored.

“Very well. I will meet you tomorrow morning.” Thranduil hung up, handing her phone back to her.

“Can they help?” she asked, stuffing the phone in her pocket.

“With the government, possibly,” he said. “With our four guests, likely not. Mental manipulation is evidently so rare that they know of but one who possesses it, and he is their enemy. I am going to have to attempt it myself.”

Lorna winced. Well, he’d succeeded on the doctor, and it didn’t sound as though he’d fucked up any who had wandered into his forest in the past – though on the other hand, he’d never actually said he hadn’t. _That_ was a thought she didn’t need.

Still, even if he banjaxed it, it would be better than killing them, or locking them up for the rest of their lives. It was the least of three evils, or so she told herself. And it wasn’t as though the lot of them had been kidnapped – they’d come poking around of their own free will.

Why didn’t that make her feel any better?

Lorna had zero problem with hitting someone she thought deserved it, but broken bones healed. She was pretty sure broken _minds_ didn’t, and while she didn’t know anything about these four, she doubted they deserved it.

She sipped her tea. Would Thranduil see it that way? Maybe, maybe not. Even if he did, she doubted it would stop him, because he really was creepily overprotective, and not just of her and the twins.

Oh well. There wasn’t exactly anything to be done about it until the DMA people arrived, and they could actually make some kind of plan. She’d try not to worry until then, although she doubted she’d succeed.

\--

Miranda had a headache.

It wasn’t surprising that Lord Thranduil had managed to catch the interest of someone in the Irish government, but she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about it. All the people she had in various world governments were secretive about what they were, and the DMA couldn’t afford for even one to blow their cover.

Then again, scandal was easily manufactured, and all the more easily by some of her agents. Once she found out just who was interested in him, she could set up something involving bestiality porn. They might not have a telepath to loan Lord Thranduil, but technopaths they had in plenty.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, and went to dig a bottle of whiskey from her kitchen cupboard. The Elf was, she was sure, only going to cause more trouble. She probably ought to be glad he was the last one, even if she did feel sorry for the poor bastard.

No normals had been in the DMA for over a thousand years, but they could make an exception for the people of Lasgaelen, if it came to it. It wasn’t like they didn’t already know about the supernatural, and the DMA itself. After those staggering caves, nothing in the DMA was going to overwhelm them.

Miranda dumped a few ice cubes into a glass, adding a generous amount of whiskey. Lord Thranduil had told her of his plan to hide the village, but she highly doubted that would do a damn thing about electronic surveillance – she’d send him a technopath or two. They couldn’t do anything about satellite photos, but they could scramble ground tech.

She wished she could say fabricating goat-human sex was the weirdest thing she’d ever asked anyone to do, but it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

\--

By the time they reached the house that evening, Thranduil could tell Lorna was exhausted, so he dealt with the twins while she crawled into bed. Though her incision was largely healed, she probably shouldn’t be moving around so much, but he couldn’t think of any way to keep her still.

Well, no way she would allow, anyway. There were many things he could do that would keep her in one place and wear her out at the same time, but he was hardly going to press _that_ issue. Eventually, he would let her know just how very receptive he was, but it would be up to her to initiate anything. Eru knew he’d more than initiated the first time.

He couldn’t deny that he’d dreamt of her – of what he could do, and make her feel. She thought little of her appearance, and perhaps other Edain did, too, but to him she was beautiful, scars and all. Her fëa showed her as she should be – as she would be, had her life been different – and he thought anyone would have thought her lovely then.

She was so deeply asleep that she didn’t stir when he ran his fingers through her hair, threaded with silver and soft as strands of black silk. Yes, she was beautiful, in her own odd way, and someday he would make her realize it.

Thranduil drew his hand away. He couldn’t have her yet; he would have to earn that privilege. Even had she granted it already, he couldn’t take her right now anyway – not until she had fully recovered from the trauma of the twins’ birth. He had no idea how long that would take one of the Eldar, let alone one of the Edain. Lorna was a tough little creature, but she was still an Edain. Some things just took time.

Now she shifted, snuggling against his side rather like an overgrown cat. He had her, and the twins, and his motley village, and while he would not actually destroy Eire to keep them safe, he was not above destroying a _few_ things.

But the DMA, he hoped, would ensure it never came to that. While it galled him to know that he likely could not keep his family and his people safe on his own, this was no longer his world. He was going to have to learn to adapt as the Edain did.

He rested his chin atop Lorna’s head, breathing the lavender sent of her hair. Tomorrow would bring what it would bring. Once those from the DMA arrived, he would cast his enchantment, and Lasgaelen would vanish from the outside world.

\--

Lorna woke to the sun in her face, Thranduil wrapped around her like a clinging vine. When she turned her head, she found his stare empty and fixed, which meant he was probably still asleep. (She was never getting used to that. _Ever_.)

She desperately needed to pee, but even asleep, he didn’t seem inclined to let go of her. She had to poke him in his velvet-clad ribs until he blinked awake. “Bathroom,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

If he’d been anyone else, she would have sworn he was pouting, but at least he released her. She scurried into the bathroom, did her business, and brushed the fuzz off her teeth before darting back to the warmth of her bed.

Thranduil immediately pulled her close, running his fingers through her hair, and she breathed in the heady scent of him without reservation. There was something inexpressibly comforting about lying with him like this, but she was beginning to want more.

The day she’d met him, she had registered, through her mental haze, that he was bloody gorgeous, but under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have led her to actually shagging him. She just wasn’t the sort. Now, though – now she _knew_ him, at least somewhat, knew how maddening, thoughtful, creepy, and sweet he could be. He was a complex person, not a beautiful statue given life, and she wanted him. _All_ of him, mind and body. She wanted to kiss him now not only because he was beautiful, but because she loved him. He was strong and unearthly and utterly devoted to her and the twins – hell, to the whole village. No, perhaps she wasn’t _in_ love with him yet, but there was more than one kind of love.

But was it fair to him, to kiss him with no follow-through? Was there etiquette to snogging? She didn’t really know. Liam had been her first and only boyfriend until she met Thranduil, and he’d been almost as inexperienced as she was. If there _was_ etiquette, he didn’t know it, either. She wasn’t capable of following through right now even if she wanted to, but oh, she wanted to kiss him. 

Lorna doubted he was reading her mind, but something in her expression must have given her away, for he gave her a smirk that was rather gentler than usual. Slowly, as though careful not to startle her, he slipped his fingers into her hair, drew her close, and kissed her.

It was light at first, soft and exploratory and almost chaste, as though he was determined not to overwhelm her as he had on the day they met. There was nothing tentative in it, however, and when she parted her lips, Thranduil explored her mouth with unhurried thoroughness. _God_ he tasted good, sweet and rich and spicy and, somehow, still a little like wine – she could drink him in for hours, if given the chance.

His free arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer still, leaving her flush against him, and it was a good thing she wasn’t medically allowed to shag yet, because he was already seriously testing her resolve, and they hadn’t even done more than kiss. It didn’t help that she knew exactly what he was capable of, with his hands and that wicked tongue – the day they’d met, he’d made her come harder than she ever had in her life. Three times. Her arms wrapped around him now of their own accord, exploring the broad plane of his back.

Eventually, she had to break the kiss so she could properly breathe, but Thranduil didn’t miss a beat; his mouth traveled the line of her jaw, down her neck, kissing and nipping just lightly enough that he wouldn’t leave a mark. His silky hair brushed over her arms beneath the sleeves of her T-shirt, soft where it touched her throat, and she gave a contented sigh when he pushed aside her collar and kissed his way along her shoulder.

Caesarean or no cesarean, Lorna had no plans to ask him to stop, so it was just as well someone knocked on the door when they did. She bit back a groan of frustration, though she knew she ought to be grateful. Hurting herself because she was too horny not to wouldn’t actually be any fun.

“The DMA people are here,” Mairead called through the door. “Get decent, if you aren’t already.”

“They don’t mess about, do they?” Lorna muttered, wishing she could drag Thranduil back to her when he got up. Still, she ought to be grateful they’d got here so soon, especially since she didn’t actually know how far they’d had to come. On the list of currently important things, her libido was close to the very bottom.

She didn’t bother with jeans – her fleece pyjama bottoms were much warmer, and she doubted these people would care. At least she swapped her oversized T-shirt for a dark green sweater – it too was far too large, but it didn’t look so slovenly. Brushing the rat’s-nest that was her hair would take far too much time, so she took the brush with her when she followed Thranduil downstairs.

The smell of French toast assailed her, and immediately made her stomach rumble. Mairead and Kevin had taken both the cars and gone on one massive grocery run yesterday, buying so much that a number of shelves in the lounge were stacked with boxes and cans, the cupboards having been jammed past capacity in short order. Much of it, Mairead said, was going down into Thranduil’s halls, to be stored there in case they had to evacuate at a moment’s notice. It was a damn good thing she was so sensible, because Lorna might not have thought of that.

Seated at the kitchen table were two women and a man, all looking quite at ease. One of the women was probably around Lorna’s age, a tall woman with long black hair and eyes nearly as dark, her complexion the color of teak. The man looked like he could be her twin, though he was much bulkier, and a bit shorter. The second woman was older, maybe in her forties, and she was the palest person Lorna had ever seen, her hair and eyebrows and even her _eyelashes_ white, with eyes nearly as light as Thranduil’s. If she wasn’t albino, she was something close.

Thranduil watched the three of them with what was, for him, open curiosity – those who knew him would be able to identify it, even if this trio couldn’t. They watched him right back, their inquisitiveness far more blatant, and Lorna wondered what they’d been told about him, and the situation in general.

“Miranda told us you knew we were coming,” the pale lady said. Her accent was very faintly Russian. “My name is Sveta – these two are Shivshankari and Damodara,” she added, pointing at the other woman and the man, respectively. “They’re your technopaths – they’ll deal with anything technological that gets thrown at you, or try to. I’m not a telepath, but I’m the next best thing, and the only thing we’ve got right now.”

“What do you do?” Lorna asked, dragging out a chair and sitting to face her.

“I’m an empath. I can read people’s emotions, but I can also control them to a degree,” Sveta said, a measure of dryness to her tone. “I can’t wipe your prisoners’ memories, but I can basically make them so high they’ll be of no use to anyone. Forever.”

Lorna choked on a laugh before she could help it. It really wasn’t funny – it might not be a memory-wipe, but it was still something that would forever alter them. Even it wasn’t fair – but then, she reminded herself, the four of them had come poking about of their own free will. She had to keep telling herself that it wasn’t as though the village had kidnapped the poor bastards, though even that wasn’t precisely comforting. She doubted anything really would be.

A glance at Thranduil told her he still didn’t share her compunction, and she doubted he ever would. God only knew what he’d done in the past, to keep his kingdom safe – though she believed him when he said he wasn’t in the habit of hurting innocent people. When he’d dealt with their various interlopers, she’d seen flashes of things that made her think he could be very, very cold if he chose, but he’d never done anything to make her think there was actual cruelty in him.

“Now that you are here, I will cast my enchantment,” he said. “You will be exempt, but any others of your people must come with you, or they will not find this village. I do not know how my magic will interfere with Edain technology, but I suspect it will cause some measure of interference in and of itself. Your task may not be as difficult as it would otherwise.”

“We can hope,” Shivshankari said. Her accent was very, very heavily American. “Part of our purpose is to make sure everything _inside_ your enchantment still works. They will cut off your electricity and water supply from the outside – the water we might not be able to help, but we can keep your power on.”

“Water will not be an issue,” he said. “I have access to more than enough, though transporting it might prove difficult.”

‘Difficult’ was an understatement. Water was damn heavy, and hauling it all the way to the village would be a nightmare – especially since they’d have to get it to the edge of the woods before they could load it into a car, and even then, they’d run out of gas eventually.

“We will see what might be done,” Damodara said. “This will not be easy, but it can be done.”

Lorna hoped like hell he was right.

“Tell me something,” Sveta said, “will this enchantment physically keep people out, should they find a way in through sheer accident?”

“No,” Thranduil said, with a slightly unpleasant smile, “but my dungeons are very, very large.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a damn good thing they’ve got help from the DMA, or they’d be screwed in very short order. They’ll get the distraction Thranduil and Big Jamie want fairly soon, and they’ll both regret wanting one.
> 
> Title means “Change is coming” in Irish. As ever, your comments feed my brain, and keep it from zombiefying. Om nom nom.


	21. Cealú agus Fionnachtana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil and the technopaths cut Lasgaelen off from the outside world, Lorna, Jamie, and Michael learn a bit about magic, the villagers are, well…themselves, and Thranduil unknowingly touches a nerve.

Lorna was very, very curious about the technopaths, and since Doc Barry had ordered her to bloody sit _still_ already, sit she did, watching them from the far end of the bar with a twin on either side of her. She was somewhat unnerved by the fact that _they_ seemed to be watching the pair, too.

They’d chosen the pub to work in first because it and the Market drew the most electricity on a more or less consistent basis. The surgery only had a power surge when there was an emergency – which, apparently, there had been yesterday. Old Orla had run over a fifth government goon, snapping his femur clean in half. Even with a cast, he couldn’t be moved like that, so he was currently handcuffed to a bed until they could figure out what to do with him. Nuala was conscientious about giving him his pain medication, but aside from that she didn’t bother coddling him.

The pub was currently rather empty, so the technopaths could work in peace; only she, Big Jamie, and Michael remained, so that they could turn things on or off as instructed. Just now, every light was blazing, the dishwashers running and all the ovens open and on high, rendering the entire pub so hot they had to leave the door half open. Big Jamie used the occasional need to turn on a blender as an excuse to make the lot of them margaritas.

So far, Shivshankari and Damodara hadn’t done much of anything that was actually visible to an outsider – they just sat at the bar, staring at nothing. From what little they’d had time to explain, they didn’t just feel electricity, they _saw_ it, and knew how to manipulate it to their own ends, no matter what the wires and circuits intended. 

Lorna wondered what electricity looked like to them – and just what they were currently doing with it, aside from driving Big Jamie’s electric bill through the ceiling.

“Grid One’s separate,” Shivshankari said, blinking.

“What’s that, then?” Michael asked.

“We’re disconnecting your power grids from the outside,” she explained. “We’ve been building a charge in this one.”

“Then why haven’t the fuses blown?” Big Jamie asked. 

“It’s cycling,” she said. “Feeding on itself and lingering in the grid until you need it. Think of it like concentrated orange juice.”

“Yeah, that’s not helping. How can you _concentrate_ electricity?” He sounded almost offended by the idea.

She smiled. “It’s called magic for a reason.”

“It’s a rubbish explanation,” he grumbled. “You could use it to handwave anything.”

“No, you can’t,” Damodara said, blinking. “Grid Two’s separate. Even magic has its limitations, and we’ve all got rules. It does what it does, and _only_ what it does. Your Lord Thranduil would say the same. We could no more do what he does than he could do what we do.”

“Sounds inconvenient,” Michael said, pouring himself a beer. Even with the door open, he was sweating.

“It works that way for a reason. Look at what even the birth of those twins did to the weather. Get too much free-floating magic and you have hurricanes that would make Katrina look like nothing,” Shivshankari said. “It didn’t work that way before the Obliteration, but if our failsafes ever, well, _failed_ , the world would be in big trouble.”

“Have they ever failed?” Lorna asked, rocking Shane’s carrier by the handle.

“Only once that we know of,” Shivshankari said, “though the records are pretty sparse.”

“What happened?” Michael asked. He had a mustache of foam coating his upper lip.

She smiled humorlessly. “You know how most cultures have a flood myth? Yeah, apparently that was our fault. We have a better system now.”

“Is Thranduil’s enchantment going to overload it?” While Lorna doubted it, she didn’t actually _know_ a damn thing.

“Probably not,” Shivshankari said. “His magic isn’t like ours. Julifer says he draws it off some other source entirely. Miranda would rather he not know that, though, if he doesn’t already. She doesn’t want him getting ideas.”

Lorna snorted. He’d get _ideas_ anyway, but it was probably best he not know he could get away with them. She trusted him with many things, but not necessarily to know when enough was enough.

She was getting some _ideas_ of her own, unfortunately. Her hormones must be spiking, because she kept picturing him naked at inopportune times. Weren’t those hormones meant to subside after giving birth? She should not be wanting to lick him while watching the two people who were going to make sure they’d have working light bulbs once they were cut off from the outside world. That was just creepy.

She sipped her margarita, banishing the images to the back of her mind. God, she’d missed alcohol. She probably shouldn’t be having any now, but one drink wasn’t going to kill her. Most of the scabs had come off her incision (and wasn’t _that_ gross); blood thinners weren’t an issue anymore. Now she could actually try a glass of Thranduil’s wine, whenever they actually got a chance.

She wondered if he’d let her lick it off his chest.

\--

The village was busy preparing itself as if for a storm, but Thranduil stood in the silent peace of his forest, focusing. 

It had been centuries since had deliberately exerted real magic, and there was the added complication of ensuring he did not use too much. He had never been as precise as Galadriel and Elrond, but he had also never had an Elven Ring to aid him.

Not until now.

Galadriel had bequeathed Nenya to him before she sailed, in the hope that it might someday aid him, though its power was greatly diminished. He had used it as best he could during the Obliteration, to little avail; it was merely a shadow of its former self, no matter how beautifully it glittered in the sunlight.

It could still, however, act as a focus. The Eldar were not as the Istari, with their staves and thousand of spells – their magic was more subtle, and more limited, but as strong as the foundations of the earth upon which he stood. Properly focused and channeled, he could tear this entire island apart. Hiding this one small area would be little trouble by comparison – once he actually dredged it up. What little magic had remained after the Obliteration had largely atrophied, and did not want to be stirred.

Thranduil had not, until now, realized how much he missed it, the tingle of it stirring all around him. Once, he and all Eldar had been in full possession of it, so thoroughly that to be without it was unimaginable. It was in _everything_ – the earth, the water, the air, unknown to any but a few of the Edain. To feel it now, waking from its long slumber – he wished there was another Elda to share it with, for even the Gifted among the Edain would not truly understand, and his children were far too young.

But he was not truly alone. One by one, the Lingerers gathered around him, for once moved by something in the physical world without prompting. Their fëar shimmered before him, visible to none save himself and one another, their eyes temporarily cleared of obliviousness.

Gradually, the cold air around him warmed, the shiver of waking magic feeding off the chill. It traveled through the earth, along tree-roots great and small, reaching upward into the bare canopy. He could see it, even if none of the Edain would be able to, for it unfurled within the spirit world as well – pale, delicate coils at first, gaining size and strength with each passing moment. 

Thranduil smiled, pleased that he need not see how he would truly go to protect his people from the outside world. If none could find their way in, there need be no violence. The DMA, who knew far about this world than he did, would come up with a more permanent solution.

\--

Lasgaelen was out-of-the-way enough that there were none to witness what happened to it.

The village did not disappear all at once. Its vanishing was gradual, tendrils creeping up and forming a dome of emptiness, leaving nothing but a field of snow and sky. By the time it was finished, one would never have known there had ever been a village at all.

\--

Lorna ate lunch and headed home, changing out the twins’ drips when she arrived. Given how fast they were growing, she hoped they’d be able to switch to baby food soon, because they couldn’t order any more of their current formula. For now they still had plenty, but once it was gone, it was gone.

She got them settled into the playpen – now that they were trying to be mobile, she didn’t feel safe turning her back on them unless they were confined, and went into the kitchen to peruse all Mairead had bought. It looked like enough to feed an army, but given how much the four kids could eat, Lorna had a feeling they’d run through it faster than she might expect.

Now that everything was at least temporarily settled, she was jittery and restless, pacing the kitchen. She couldn’t escape the feeling that this was the calm before some massive storm – she wanted to _do_ something, but thanks to her incision, most of her usual activities were right out. Doc Barry had already scolded her for moving about so much, but Lorna had never been any good at sitting still for very long.

Maybe going to the woods would help. Once Thranduil was done doing whatever he was doing, he would probably come here, and he could carry the twins on the way back. Yes, there was a danger that she’d try to jump his bones, but self-control wasn’t entirely beyond her.

She groaned, resting her forehead against the cool door of the freezer. She’d been so very determined to keep her pants on until they’d got married, but that was before all this… _this_ happened. God only knew when there would be time for a proper wedding anyway, especially if they were unlucky enough that things went to hell in spite of everyone’s best intentions. Yes, she had her scruples, but after everything, she wasn’t about to deny herself solely to satisfy them. If the opportunity presented itself after next week…she wasn’t going to say no. 

If this really _was_ just a hormone spike, it would be over by then. If not…well, she’d just take the kids and stay with Thranduil for a few days. They wouldn’t have anybody (meaning Mairead) breathing down their necks, and they could just see where things went. They hadn’t had much time to spend alone together even in a platonic sense for weeks now.

That being said, she’d raid the surgery for condoms anyway.

\--

Siobhan hadn’t realized just how of the people of Lasgaelen constrained their activities solely out of fear of getting caught.

As soon as word came down that Lord Thranduil’s spell thing had taken hold, it seemed like half the village brought out fireworks they had to have been hoarding since before the things were banned, dragging them out into the fields and lighting up the night sky. The snow was stained with brief flashes of red and gold and green, the cold air redolent of sulfur.

It was the children, mostly, who set them off; the adults had lit a bonfire a little ways away, and sat around it in plastic lawn chairs, most holding a can of ale. Big Jamie, looking indulgent, and Orla, looking slightly worried every time her eyes strayed to the kids; Mick and Alec, arguing as usual; Doc Barry and John, both of whom were avoiding the alcohol; Nuala and her sister, Molly, who had brought a plastic tarp to sit on and were sharing what looked like a cherry cheesecake, and Kevin O’Reilly, looking a bit exhausted. He didn’t have anything close to Mairead’s stamina – and from what Siobhan had heard, he was still in the doghouse after almost burning his face off trying to deep-fry a turkey at Christmas. She and Bridie had their own small blaze, watching over the children with eagle-eyes.

More arrived, building three more fires, and Siobhan wondered if this was what village life would have been hundreds of years ago – minus the fireworks, of course. How often would everyone have gathered outside together under the stars? It must have been so much simpler then, even if it also would have been a great deal more uncomfortable. The modern world might be a stressful place, but at least it had indoor plumbing.

She looked up just in time to spot Lorna and Lord Thranduil approaching. If not for the baby-carrier he had in each hand, she might have thought he’d stepped right out of a time-portal or something. He looked odd and out-of-place in the village, even now, but in this kind of setting, it worked a lot better.

He also looked so disgustingly pleased with himself that she kind of wanted to hit him on sheer principle. She knew he was bloody powerful, but he sometimes looked so arrogant that she wondered how often _Lorna_ had smacked him for it.

It was a bit odd how, mismatched though they ought to have seemed together, they somehow didn’t. Not anymore, anyway. They moved to accommodate one another in a way that seemed entirely automatic, and often seemed to communicate entirely through glances. Just now they got the carriers set up on another tarp with little in the way of words, and sat down behind them, able to keep an eye on the twins and lean against each other at the same time, both wrapped up in his silvery cloak.

Dammit, Siobhan needed a girlfriend. The trouble with being gay in a small town was that you pretty much had to import your significant other, and _that_ was hardly going to happen right now. Those two looked so sweet together it was almost nauseating, and she wanted to someone to nauseate other people with, too.

She drained her can of lager, crushed it, tossed it into the fire, and let out a belch that would have done her father proud, had he not been dead for two years. It was so loud that it actually echoed a little off the trees.

“Classy,” Nuala called. She had blob of cherry filling on her upper lip.

“You know it,” Siobhan retorted, and belched again.

“I’d give that about an eight,” Lorna said. “I know you can do better.”

“So says the woman who always wins the belching contests,” Michael said, around a mouthful of crisps. He spewed a few crumbs down the front of his jumper, which of course he didn’t notice.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, her head rested against Lord Thranduil’s shoulder, “if we could all manage to belch at once, I bet it’d _really_ echo.”

Young Orla groaned, but Big Jamie laughed. “I’m game if you are. Everybody who wants in, get something and chug it.” He tossed Lorna a can of orange fizzy drink rather than a lager, and though she sighed, she didn’t protest – and she was wise enough to open it over the snow, rather than the tarp, for of course it fizzed over.

The snap of tabs and hiss of carbonation surrounded the fire like a snake with extraordinarily bad gas, and Siobhan joined in when everybody dutifully started chugging away, though she really wasn’t thirsty anymore. Young Orla, pained though she looked, seemed to be keeping track of everyone.

“On your mark,” she sighed, once Michael finally got to the bottom of his can, “get set: go.”

The sound that split the night was like that of the world’s biggest bullfrog, and it did indeed echo very impressively – not just against the edge of the forest, but further in, chasing itself through the trees for a good ten seconds.

Lorna took one look at Lord Thranduil’s disturbed expression and burst out laughing – and she wasn’t the only one. Siobhan herself laughed so hard she was nearly sick, a stitch in her side and a hiccup in her gut.

“I rescind my rule over you all,” he said, his pale eyes traveling from one person to another. “That was appalling.”

“Do Elves not belch?” Doc Barry asked, through her own giggling.

“Not like _that_ ,” he replied, sounding so offended it set Siobhan all over again.

“They also don’t sneeze,” Lorna put in. “Startled the hell out’v him the first time he saw me do it.”

“It _is_ rather…violent,” he said. “Though not half so distasteful as it was when you actually sneezed in my face.”

“Gross, Aunt Lorna,” Shannon called. She’d wandered over, drawn by the burping, stinking of sulfur. “You’re supposed to sneeze into your sleeve.”

“I didn’t exactly have a chance,” Lorna protested, ooching one of the carriers over so her niece could sit. “I was parked on Thranduil’s lap at the time.”

Shannon’s expression was so revolted that Siobhan thought she just might flee into the night again, but apparently the lure of warmth was too much. Still, she looked a bit green, even in the firelight.

“You know what, I don’t want to know,” Nuala said.

Lorna scowled at her. “It wasn’t like _that_ ,” she said. “We were sitting in Big Jamie’s office, and you know how tiny that is. This was the night’v the flood, when I’d just found out I’d got married without knowing it.” She gave Lord Thranduil a very pointed look, but he seemed entirely unrepentant, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “You know, if I’d been a different sort, I really might’ve skinned you for that.”

“If you had been a different sort, I wouldn’t have taken the risk,” he retorted. “As it was, I doubted you were any form of murderer.”

Lorna froze, and Siobhan winced. By now half the village knew that Lorna had done time for manslaughter, even if no one knew the particulars. Obviously she hadn’t told _him_ that, though – not that Siobhan could blame her.

Silence fell, in which nobody quite knew what to do or say. Lorna, apparently unable to handle it, struggled to her feet and headed off into the snow, seemingly in no particular direction.

Lord Thranduil looked utterly bewildered, and more than a little concerned. When he went to rise himself, however, Big Jamie held up a hand.

“Leave her be,” he said. “You’ve touched a nerve you apparently didn’t know was there.”

“What are you talking about?” Lord Thranduil demanded, and there was an edge to his deep voice that made Siobhan shiver, fighting not to edge away. 

Big Jamie’s eyes traveled the group. “Not here,” he said. “Orla, will you look after the twins for a minute?”

“’Course I will.” Her blue eyes were wide and anxious.

Lord Thranduil followed Big Jamie, though it was clear he did not want to. As soon as they’d gone, Siobhan hopped to her feet and took off after Lorna. She might not need her sort-of husband right now, but she also didn’t need to be alone.

\--

Big Jamie really did not want to be the one to break this to Lord Thranduil, but _somebody_ had to – the Elf surely wouldn’t rest until he’d found out, and obviously Lorna hadn’t felt comfortable doing it.

This far away from the fire, it was damn cold – though not half so cold as Lord Thranduil’s eyes. “Explain,” he said, his voice deep as a cavern and sharp as a knife.

Jamie would freely admit his gut was twisting when he said, “Lorna did a stint in prison, when she was younger. She accidentally killed her father, and she’s a bit…touchy…about it.”

He hadn’t thought he would ever see Lord Thranduil truly surprised, but surprised he visibly was, those ungodly eyes wide. “How?”

“I shouldn’t be the one telling you the particulars,” Jamie said wretchedly, wondering how he could sweat so much in such cold. “That’s her story, not mine, but I don’t know that she’ll tell it. They were fighting over summat when he was drunk as a lord, and he tripped down the front steps. Bashed his head in, the report said.”

Disturbed though Lord Thranduil looked, he said, “That is hardly _her_ fault.”

Much as he shouldn’t say this, he did anyway. “He tripped because she punched him. She was on God knows what herself at the time, but I know she didn’t mean to kill him. She’d not been long at work when we both got drunk, and she told me that death was too good for him.”

Lord Thranduil looked away, into the shadow of the trees. “Why has she not told me this?”

“You obviously haven’t got her drunk,” Jamie snorted. “Humans work like that. There’s some things we’ll just not speak’v of our own accord. And before you go getting all judgy on her, I’m sure you’ve got plenty’v things you’ve not told _her_ yet.”

Those pale eyes returned to him, marginally less cold. “I would not judge her for it,” he said. “You are right: there is much I have not told Lorna, and perhaps I never will. I have not truly pried into her secrets, and I will not. She has killed but one of your kind, and by mistake.”

Something very like dread bloomed in Jamie’s gut like an icy flower. “You’ve killed humans? I thought you said you didn’t.”

“This was very long ago,” Lord Thranduil said. “Some four and a half thousand years. Not all of your people were as welcoming of my kind as you have been. Bands of Edain would attack us, from time to time – it was rare in Eire, but other realms had more difficulty. I was not about to destroy your homes, but neither would I allow you to defile mine.”

That…okay, that was understandable. God knew they’d done enough killing of each other back then, too – but even if Lord Thranduil was lying, Jamie would have no way of knowing. Hell, even _Lorna_ might not, for all she knew him better. He was so old, and had seen and done so much….

“Rest assured, I will not judge Lorna,” Lord Thranduil said. “Even had she outright murdered him, I could never. Though she has spoken little of her childhood, I know what that man was. Lorna does not know what true evil is – none of you do, and I hope you need never find out.” He shook his head. “Someday I will tell you stories of this world as it once was. There was much light, but there was a great deal of darkness I doubt you are aware of. The Obliteration was the worst, but it was not alone.”

That was both a relief and really bloody unsettling.”Then you’d best go find Lorna and tell her,” Jamie said. “And don’t task her for not telling you before.”

Lord Thranduil looked genuinely mystified. “Why would I do that? We all have our secrets.”

\--

Lorna knew Siobhan meant well, but she was in no mood to talk to anyone. She stuffed her hands in her pockets, shivering as she trudged through the snow. She couldn’t stay away long – she couldn’t leave the twins – but right now she just could not deal with anyone.

At least Siobhan didn’t actually _say_ anything. It was a damn good thing, because in her current mood, Lorna might just have lamped her one if she tried. What Thranduil would do with _that_ piece of information, she didn’t know, but she’d never intended to tell him. It, like so many other things in her past, simply weren’t to be shared – and she was sure it was the same with him.

Christ, she needed a drink. A whole bottle of something cheap and burning, and about a carton of cigarettes, and then maybe, _maybe_ she wouldn’t want to walk right off the edge of a bridge anymore. Her shivering was making her incision ache, but even that wasn’t enough to distract her.

Behind her, the crunch of Siobhan’s footsteps stopped, but Lorna didn’t turn. She might not be able to hear Thranduil approach, but she’d learned to sense him out of sheer self-defense, so she wouldn’t come close to a heart attack every time she turned and found him standing there.

More footsteps, this time retreating, but Lorna kept going, unable to look at him right now. If there was judgment in his arctic eyes, she didn’t know how she’d be able to stand it.

“Lorna,” he said, and his tone was as close to gentle as she’d ever hear it. “Lorna, stop.”

Stop she did, though she still didn’t face him. How could she? The shame she felt didn’t lie in killing her father, however accidentally – it came from the fact that she wasn’t sorry. No, she could never have done it on purpose, no matter how much she hated him, but she didn’t regret his death at all. If she’d known where he was buried, she would have spat on his grave without a qualm. 

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said. Might as well get all the truth out at one go. “The others, they don’t mean to me what you do. I don’t care what they think’v me half so much as I do you. I didn’t want you to know what it was I used to be.”

Thranduil touched her shoulder, and she finally turned to him. He was usually difficult to read, but just now his expression was surprisingly open. “I would not fault you, had you never told me,” he said. “That I love you does not mean I have the right to all of your secrets. There is much I have not told you, and may never tell you, for it is too painful for me to revisit.”

“I bet you never killed one’v your parents, even by accident,” she said, wanting to step toward him but too afraid to move.

“No,” he said, closing the distance between them, “but I made several disastrous decisions that got hundreds of my people killed. I might not have slain them with my own hands, but they would not have died if not for my folly.” He paused a moment, taking her hands. “Come with me, Firieth Dithen – there is something I would show you, but I will not do it out here. We must go to your home, and I must hope that you will still wish to return to me once you have seen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, three guesses what he’s going to show her. That had to be got out in the open, though, because they really _do_ need to learn more about each other.
> 
> Title means “Disappearance and Discovery” in Irish. As always, your reviews keep me inspired.


	22. Rúin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna and Thranduil bare their souls, as much as either is actually able.

In truth, Thranduil did not at all want to do this. He knew Lorna wasn’t shallow, but his disfigurement was truly horrifying even to him. It had tainted him – he had wondered more than once if that poison was why he could not bear to sail, why he was certain would not have been allowed to even if he’d wished. All who looked at him saw the smooth perfection of the Eldar; none now in this world had any idea what lurked beneath the surface.

The house was pleasantly warm after the cold night air, though he only turned on one of the kitchen lights. Given what he was about to show her, one was enough.

Lorna was watching him warily, and he didn’t think he had ever seen such open vulnerability on her face – not even when they spoke after their first argument. She was a very expressive little person, but she rarely expressed all that went on in her mind, but she let him see just how tentative she really was now.

He drew her over to the kitchen table, gesturing for her to sit. Unaccustomed anxiety twisted in his chest, tight as a band around his heart. His mind screamed at him not to do this, but part of him felt compelled to.

“What I am going to show you may revolt you,” he said, sitting to face her. “No, I know it will, for it is revolting, but you should know the truth before you make your mind up to wed me.”

“Show me what?” she asked, and he could understand her confusion; she had, after all, seen him with no clothes on.

Thranduil sighed again. “I told you of the dragon in Erebor, but Smaug was not the only dragon to curse the surface of this world. If ought another, nearly five thousand years ago, and I did not come out of it unscathed.”

Dropping the glamour was one of the hardest things he had done in centuries, for he had worn it so long it was part of him now, as natural as breathing. He’d long since grown used to the numbness, which was a mercy compared to the agony of the initial wound.

Lorna’s eyes widened, as he’d known they would, but she didn’t recoil. Her gaze flicked over his face from one side to the other, taking him in. “Does it hurt?” she asked, and there was no revulsion in her tone.

“Not anymore,” he said. “This is me as I truly am, Firieth Dithen. If you run away now, I would not fault you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re an eejit,” she said, before she lunged across the table, seized his collar, and kissed him.

Now _he_ was the one who was shocked, so much so that she nearly knocked him backward. Of all the reactions he had expected, this was not one of them. When she brought her hand up to the scar, her touch was light, but he suspected that was out of care, not disgust.

It took him a moment to kiss her back, but when he did it was hungry, and entirely without restraint. She tasted of alcohol and bread and _Lorna_ , and the only thing that kept him from taking her right there on the table was the fact that the twins were still outside.

When she broke away, she leaned back enough to look at him. Her face was flushed, her pupils blown wide. “I don’t love you because’v what you look like, you daft bugger,” she said, a touch breathless. “Yes, you’re beautiful, but I’d still love you if you walked about like this all the time. You’ve seen my scars, Thranduil, and how banjaxed my ribs are, and you accept me as I am. Did you really think I wouldn’t be the same with you?”

Thranduil dragged her the rest of the way across the table, settling her in his lap and resting his chin on the crown of her head. “I could not be certain,” he said. “Eru knows I cannot stand to look at it myself.”

“I’ll look for both’v us,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder. “I won’t lie – it’s startling, but it’s not what you think it is, and it’s not the first wound’v it’s kind I’ve seen. There was a woman in prison with me who was there because she killed her husband for shoving her face on a hot stove. Scarred her for life, but at least she gutted him for it. Literally.”

“Your world is horrifying, Firieth Dithen,” he said, unspeakably relieved. “Come with me. There is more I would tell you, while I still have the courage. Let us take the twins and go home.”

“There’s some things I ought to tell you, too,” she said. “I’m just drunk enough that I’ll actually say them out loud.”

He let her stand, willing the glamour back into place, and followed her out into the cold.

\--

That wound really had startled Lorna, but she’d spent five years sharing a cell with Shelagh – she didn’t find it horrifying. She could understand why he covered it up, but he didn’t need to around her. It wasn’t as though she wouldn’t get used to it, though no matter what he said, she’d fear hurting him if she touched it.

She took his hand as she walked, both to give him reassurance and to focus herself. That kiss had all but shut her brain down for a moment, and it was a damn good thing it was so cold outside. If there wasn’t some snogging after their mutual revelations, she was going to be very annoyed. They would probably both need it.

She was irritated but unsurprised when the villagers gave the pair of them wary looks, but their linked hands seemed to allay a few worries. Thranduil had to release her to pick up the twins, however, but she linked her arm through his.

“I’ve got my mobile, Mairead, but we’ll be gone a bit,” she said. “Don’t burn anything down while we’re away.”

“Ha-very-ha her sister said, though she still looked rather worried. Lorna would deal with that later.

The walk was a long one, since she had to flail through the snow, but that was a good thing. She needed the time to organize the skeletons in her mental closet – there weren’t many, but there were a number of things she had done in her life that she was not proud of. There were a number more that she _shouldn’t_ be proud of, but was anyway. She had left much behind when she moved to Lasgaelen, much that she didn’t want to remember, let alone share.

But then, Thranduil had to be the same and then some, being so much older – she doubted he would pry any more than she would.

When they reached the halls, their warmth as more than welcome, and for once she didn’t find the silence saddening. It made it a little easier for her to gather her thoughts as they traversed the walkways to Thranduil’s room. Childproofing this place really was going to be a nightmare, she thought. How had the Elves of the past handled it? Surely there hadn’t been a constant rash of broken legs. She couldn’t imagine dozens of elf children hobbling around with casts.

She took the twins out of their carriers when they arrived at his room, while Thranduil lit more lamps and stirred up the fire. She noted with amusement that he’d set up a sort of playpen of his own – four wooden posts with some sheer, pale blue fabric stretched between them, placed atop a patchwork of fat cushions and filled with soft toys. There were hooks hanging above it for their drips, though by now those weren’t constant.

Shane was fast asleep, and stayed fast asleep when he was carefully lowered onto the cushions. Saoirse’s big green eyes traveled the room, and when Lorna set her down, she grabbed a stuffed bunny and started chewing on its ear. Christ, Lorna remembered what teething had been like in her youngest brother. Mick was her only experience with babies and small children, so she was damn glad Thranduil actually knew what the hell he was doing.

She shed her coat and boots, wondering how she was to start this round of confessions, and hoping he would, first. Lorna was good at communicating when it came to communicating superficial things, but deeper emotions were so much harder. Unfortunately, she had a feeling he was even worse.

When the fire was burning high, he drew her to sit on the sofa, pulling her close. Lorna was grateful; some of this would be easier said if they weren’t face-to-face. His natural Thranduil scent was mingled with smoke and winter, his hair tickling soft against her cheek.

They sat a while in silence, but finally, he spoke. “You say I did not kill my parents, and I did not.” His voice was deep and calm, though not quite steady. “But my wife rode in the disastrous charge I led against foes who no longer exist in this world. I led her to her death.”

Lorna had no idea what to say to that, so she said nothing – she merely took his hand, giving it a light squeeze .There was more, she was sure, but he would say it in his own time.

“This was only two hundred years after I faced the dragon,” he went on. “That seems a very long time to you, but to an Elf it is not long at all. Were it not for my son, I would have Faded, or perhaps taken my own life, kingdom be damned. Legolas – he was all I had left, the only thing in this world I truly loved.”

Thranduil drew her closer, as though afraid she would vanish if he let her go. “I lied to you about his fate,” he said softly. “It is the only lie I have ever told you, and I still do not know why. The Obliteration took him, as it took so many others – perhaps I wished that someone might believe he yet lived, that he had sailed and not burned up from fever.”

Lorna gave his hand another squeeze. That was not a lie she could fault him for; hell, she might have told it herself, had their positions been reversed. When he remained silent, she knew it was her turn.

“It was my idea to go to Dublin, the night Liam died,” she said, toying with a lock of hair and forcing herself to dredge up each word. “The weather was shite, and there was no reason we couldn’t’ve gone the next day, but I just had to, and I let him drive. If I’d been behind the wheel, we might not’ve crashed, and he wouldn’t’ve died. I wouldn’t’ve had to _watch_ him die.”

She had to pause. Tears were not in her nature; she hadn’t cried since that first day in hospital, but she wished she was capable of it now. Her eyes burned, but remained dry. “We landed in the River Shannon, and I got us both out, but Liam, he’d broken his neck, I think – he was paralyzed. I’d broken my leg, but I maybe could’ve pulled myself up the bank, waved for help, for all I knew none would be found. We’d been alone on the motorway for ages before the crash. I _maybe_ could’ve, except…” She trailed off, unable to put words around the horror of the wet heat between her thighs – of feeling her child’s life literally bleed away.

“I lost the baby then, too, but Liam, he hung on for hours. It was hypothermia that got him, I think, and I still don’t know how it didn’t get me, too. Eventually the cold turned warm, and I fell asleep. I woke up in hospital, and wished I hadn’t. I didn’t think anything would ever be okay again.”

She leaned back, needing to look at Thranduil for this. “I feel guilty, being as happy as I’ve been. It’s not yet a year since I lost him. I shouldn’t’ve moved on as I have. It feels like betrayal. It’s not fair to him at all, that I should love anyone so soon. I know that he wouldn’t want me to be miserable, but still – it doesn’t seem fair to him. To the child I lost.” It was, in all honesty, one of the reasons she’d hesitated to marry Thranduil. Part of her was afraid to actually fall in love with him, even now that she was learning more of him, because it really did feel like infidelity. That, however, was not something she had it in her to say aloud.

“I cannot tell you how to feel,” he said, brushing his thumb beneath her left eye. “We all mourn in different ways. I will tell you that I think you need not feel that way, but I am not you, and I have not endured all that you have. 

“This is, perhaps, my fault – I should not have approached you so soon, but Lorna, content though you seemed, though you perhaps even felt, you were still dying by degrees when I found you. You know that I had followed you, that I had learned something of you, and I wished to brighten your fëa, for it was so perilously dim. I did not, however, think my actions through.”

Lorna arched an eyebrow, dry in spite of herself. “That,” she said, “was fairly obvious from the get-go. I obviously wasn’t thinking at all, because, pretty though you are, I wouldn’t’ve just shagged you ten minutes after I met you. I’m glad you’ve got your will under control since then, or we’d be having some problems.”

She sighed, scrubbing her free hand over her face. “I don’t regret this,” she said. “Any’v it. If I had it all to do over again, I wouldn’t change a thing, but that doesn’t make me any less guilty. And I don’t really know what to _do_ with that – sometimes I want to just wrap myself around you, sometimes I want to shag you senseless, and sometimes I’m terrified to let myself care more than I already do. I do love you, Thranduil, but not like you love me, and I’m afraid to. Wherever Liam’s gone, I don’t want him to think I’ve just forgot him, or our child.”

Thranduil, thank bloody God, didn’t seem offended by that at all. He brushed his thumb under her eye again, trailing his fingers down her cheek. She still wasn’t used to how smooth they were. “Lorna, if he can see you wherever he is, he knows that you have not forgotten him. Were I in his position, I would not want you to die of grief. Your people are not like mine, Firieth Dithen – I know that you often remarry after your spouse has died.”

“What about you?” she asked. “You live forever, unless someone’s killed. Do you ever get married again?”

Thranduil gave her a smile that was both sad and rueful. “Very, very rarely,” he said. “You are right – we do live forever, unless we are killed, but those who die go to the halls of Mandos, where they can choose to either linger or be reborn in Aman. Most of those who lose their spouses will be reunited, but not all. If a husband or wife dies and refuses to leave the halls, the surviving spouse is allowed to marry again, if they so choose – but it is rare that an Elf will do that, and even rarer that the spouse they have left behind would _want_ to marry again. 

“I will never see Anameleth again,” he said, running his fingers through Lorna’s hair. “Valinor and Aman are barred to me – that is the most likely reason that the thought of sailing fills me with such horror. One only finds the shores of the Blessed Realm if the Valar will it, and in my case, I do not think they would. I am bound to this world, whether I like it or not.”

That…was really fucking horrifying. Why would they _do_ that to him? Thranduil, whatever he might have done in the past to protect his people, wasn’t a monster. She couldn’t imagine he’d done anything nearly bad enough to get him cut off from the rest of his people for eternity. “Thranduil,” she said slowly, not wanting to ask at all, “what’re you going to do when _I_ die?” That he would never see his first wife again was bad enough, but to lose _both_ of them…she couldn’t imagine what it would do to him, and to the twins. 

Lorna wasn’t entirely sure she liked the expression that entered his eyes. She couldn’t put any name to it, which was partially why it unsettled her so much. In the firelight, his face looked like it had been carved from pure marble; only his eyes seemed alive. “As soon as all is over,” he said, his hands running along her arms, “as soon as you have a chance to think on this, I am going to petition the Valar for one of two things, depending upon your answer. I am going to either ask them to grant you immortality, or to make me mortal, so that in time we might die together. It is within their power to do both.”

Lorna’s heart lurched, a strange, formless terror flooding her veins. That…holy shit. _Holy shit_. That gave a rather heavier meaning to ‘until death do us part’. What? Just… _what_? That was yet another thing she had no idea in hell what to do with. Rational thought momentarily came to a screeching, skidding halt.

“It is not a decision to be undertaken lightly, I know,” he said, tucking her hair behind her ears. “You have the rest of your mortal life to make it. Firieth Dithen, I know that you may never love me as I love you, and I would never ask you to do anything you were not entirely certain of.”

“I…” She swallowed, clearing her suddenly parched throat. “You’ve got to give me a while on that one. That’s…um.”

“I know,” he said, kissing her brow. The gesture was entirely affectionate, but again there was a thread of faint, nearly-undetectable possessiveness. _That_ had to get addressed, and now was the best time to do it.

Lorna sat back, looking up at him, carefully reading his expression. “Thranduil, sometimes you do things – the way you move, or the way you look at me, it’s…” She shook herself. “Tell me something: if I’d turned you away, that first night you’d come to the pub, what would you have done?” She’d like to think he’d have left it at that, but she knew him well enough now to suspect he wouldn’t have. 

To his credit, he didn’t give her some immediate, trite answer. “I do not know,” he said, taking her hands. “I can honestly tell you that I would not have interfered. Had you made it clear my presence was unwelcome, I would not have troubled you again, but I cannot promise that I would not have kept watch over you from a distance.”

Well, that was a bit creepy, but it could be a good deal worse, and given that he hadn’t understood what stalking was, she couldn’t blame him, either. She couldn’t say it was surprising, given what she’d learned of him, but she had to ask one more thing: “And if the twins and I had moved away – if we’d gone back to Dublin, or some other city?”

Thranduil went still. “I wish you had not asked me that,” he said, shutting his eyes. “At that time, before I truly knew you – before I truly understood you, and the ways of your people – I would have pursued you wherever you went. You would never have known I was there, but neither would you have been free of me.”

Lorna twitched. She couldn’t help it. At least it was an honest answer, however horrifying. She had no doubt at all that she _wouldn’t_ have known, not if he hadn’t wanted her to, and somehow, that thought was worse than the idea of having a visible stalker.

“I would not have done it if I had known what your people truly thought of such a thing,” he assured her, opening his eyes. “Before I met you, it never occurred to me that you might resent my gathering information on you as I did.”

Speaking of that, her eyes narrowed. “Thranduil, you can’t read English,” she said. “How did you know about Liam – about my miscarriage?”

“Are you really sure you want an answer to that?” he asked, and now he was the one who arched an eyebrow.

“No,” she said bluntly, crossing her arms, “but I’m asking anyway.”

“It was spring,” he said. “Your people all left most of your windows open. I stood beneath yours and listened, and went through your room while you were away.”

To her own surprise, Lorna burst out laughing, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his shoulder. “Thranduil, you are so. Goddamn. Bloody. _Creepy_ ,” she said, and yet she couldn’t keep the fondness from her tone. She probably ought to be horrified by that, by the fact that he’d been actively _spying_ as well as breaking and entering, but she wasn’t. His creepier tendencies weren’t exactly unknown to her. “Tell me you didn’t break in and watch me sleep.”

“Why in Eru’s name would I do that?” he asked, and his bewilderment sounded genuine. “That sounds terribly dull.”

That only made her laugh harder. “Thranduil, you are a bloody weirdo, and I love you,” she said, sitting back to look up at him. “I’ve more to tell, and I’m sure you do, too, but I think we need wine first.”

“You are likely right, Firieth Dithen,” he said. “Let me up, and I will get you very drunk.”

“I’m already drunk,” she pointed out.

“Then I will get you far more so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is, of course, much more they have to learn about one another, and they will, in time. Incidentally, Thranduil’s lying: if Lorna left him now, he’d hunt her to the ends of the Earth. She would just never know it.
> 
> As for the next chapter…what tends to happen in the Ettelëa series, when these two get drunk? Yeah. Porn warning, y’all. They might not actually be able to do the do yet, but Thranduil’s…creative. 
> 
> Title means “Secrets” in Irish. As ever, your reviews keep the creativity flowing through my little brain.


	23. Tubaiste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I said there was going to be porn, but I kind of lied. As I was writing, it occurred to me that even while shiftaced, Thranduil wouldn’t want to take advantage of Lorna, or have her do anything she’d regret when she was sober. Given the argument they are going to have in this chapter, that’s a good thing. In which Thranduil and Lorna don’t quite jump each other’s bones, have it out over his creepiness, and discover in short order that it’s the least of their problems.

The wine had been intended to further loosen their tongues, but in Lorna’s case, it made her want to do something very different with hers. She’d already been pretty buzzed to begin with, and watching the way Thranduil held his glass, the long line of his throat when he swallowed, was more than she could handle. She nearly upended her own glass when she set it on the end-table, and _did_ upend his when she all but tackled him. The metal goblet clanged when it hit the floor, the pungent scent of that very sweet wine joining the faint aroma of smoke.

Thranduil jumped a little in surprise, but his face was rosy with the effect of his own drink, and he gave her a slight smirk that was so wicked it did all sorts of squiggly things to her. He made no move at first to kiss her, but when she bent her head, he captured her mouth and kissed her so deeply it left her breathless. One hand slipped into her hair, cradling the back of her head, the other tracing her spine in a way that made her shiver. All the stalking in the world couldn’t have told him just what she liked – that had to be pure instinct.

Lorna broke the kiss just long enough to draw a full breath, her fingers fumbling with the line of frustratingly tiny buttons even as she dove back for more, drinking him in with a greed that surprised even her. She’d been wanting to do this for nearly a week – she had no desire drag it out.

“Lorna,” he groaned, when she finally allowed him to speak, “as much as I would love to take you over to that bed and make you forget your own name, you are very drunk. You told me you would not go to bed with me until we were married.”

“I don’t care,” she said, nipping at his lower lip. She really didn’t, either; her entire body was so consumed by base _need_ that her previous convictions meant approximately nothing.

That only earned her another groan, this one even more frustrated. “You will when you are sober,” he said, catching her shoulders and sitting her up. He wasn’t just putting her off because he was uninterested; the hardness beneath her right leg told her that he very much _was_. She had just enough sobriety left to wonder what he’d do if she slid her hand down his trousers.

“Thranduil,” she said, as patiently as she was able, “I haven’t properly got off since before the twins were born.”

“That does not mean I ought to do anything about it yet,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “I somehow doubt you would forgive me if I did, nor would I be able to comfortably live with myself.” He drew her down for another kiss before she could respond, this one slow and almost drugging. “I will not take you until you are certain, Dilthen Ettelëa, and you are far too drunk to be certain of anything.”

“You,” she grumbled against his mouth, “are no fun.”

Thranduil laughed, so quietly she felt it more than she heard it. “I can be very _fun_ , Lorna, but not until you ask it of me with a clear head. More wine will cool your ardor – and hopefully my own as well.”

Lorna scowled at him a little, but she wasn’t going to push him further if he was that determined. Instead she grabbed her glass and chugged the sweet liquid in three swallows. Maybe Thranduil would let her lick him in the morning, provided she didn’t want to die of her morning-after.

He offered her the smirk again, though this one was rather less wicked. “Come here,” he said, reaching for her. “Lie with me until you fall asleep. After that much wine, it will not take you long.”

Somehow, she managed to fall over rather than lie down, crashing against his chest with a force that drove the breath from both of them. If she couldn’t snog him, she could at least nuzzle him, and breathe in his scent like a complete creeper. And tomorrow, when she was sober, she’d prove she wasn’t just trying to have it off with him because she was drunk.

\--

When Lorna woke, she immediately regretted it.

She wasn’t prone to morning-afters, but that wine was like nothing she’d ever tried before, and now her head felt someone had dropped a cinderblock on it, then filled it full of bees, and her mouth tasted like something had died in it a week ago. Peeing and brushing her teeth were imperative, but she was afraid that if she moved, her brain might leak out her ears. At some point, Thranduil had moved them to the bed, so at least she wasn’t cramped from lying on a surface that was too narrow.

She was still in her shirt, but had evidently traded her trousers for pyjama pants at some point. Somewhere in her abused head were fuzzy images of her trying to climb Thranduil like a tree, but he’d put her off before it could go too far. Lorna was grateful for it now; whenever they did do that again, she’d rather they both be sober.

Thranduil was curled around her, so dead asleep that he didn’t stir even when she turned to look at him.

Seeing him now unsettled her, and not just because of his fixed zombie stare. Some of the things he’d said last night didn’t seem half so funny now that she was sober.

She’d known already he’d broken into her house, but she _hadn’t_ known he’d gone lurking outside her window. What else had he done, that he’d not told her simply because she hadn’t asked? She didn’t think he’d kept anything from her deliberately, but he had no reason to bring it up of his own accord.

As to the rest of it…no, she’d had no desire to move to Dublin or anywhere else, but if she _had_ , he’d straight-up told her he would have stalked her. She couldn’t put _that_ down to cultural differences and leave it there.

He said he knew better now, but did he really? If she ever did, for whatever reason, decide to leave him, how far would he follow her?

 _Anywhere_ , she thought, and it chilled her. He loved her, yes, but she was entirely certain he would never let her go.

Christ, that was terrifying.

Even though he obviously wasn’t human, it was easy for her to forget just how alien he really was. And he had married her, by his standards, after exchanging a few dozen words. Married her, and not actually told her.

Lorna really didn’t want to be thinking about any of this, but there was no way around it. She had no desire to leave, but it was rather horrifying to know that he essentially wouldn’t let her if she did. Oh, he might not stop her, might not, as he put it, interfere, but he’d still _be_ there.

And she would never know where.

A shudder crawled up her spine, and she staggered off the bed and into the bathroom. She had to have a wee and brush the fuzz off her teeth before she followed _that_ train of thought any further. Something for her head would be great, too, but she wasn’t about to wake Thranduil to ask for anything.

She only lit a single lamp, and even the light form that was almost too much. Getting the foul taste out of her mouth helped, as did washing her face. The sink actually had a tap, though the water was always cold, which made her think it drew off the brook topside. Once she’d emptied her bladder, she sat on the floor, resting her aching head against the cool stone of the cabinet, eyes shut.

She hadn’t seen Thranduil between the day they met and the night he came into the pub, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t seen _her_. He’d told her outright he’d been lurking without a permit, hence how he knew where she worked, but she’d laughed it off. Just how often had he followed her? How often had he been lurking?

Lorna was pretty sure he’d tell her the truth if she asked him, but she wasn’t certain she wanted to _know_ the truth. What with everything that was going on just then, they couldn’t afford to get in a massive row, and massive it would be.

He had stalked her, met her, knocked her up, quite possibly stalked her _again_ , and had just admitted that he never would have stopped if she’d turned him away. Even through the sick, queasy thumping of her headache, through the ominous fluttering in her stomach, a wrath all too familiar stirred in her heart.

All of this was possibly down to the fact that he’d been a king for a few thousand years, and had just never learned better, but he’d damn well learn it now. She hauled herself to her feet and filled a glass of water, downing it in three long swallows and immediately pouring another. While she couldn’t kill this morning-after so easily, she needed to at least fatally wound it before she had it out with Thranduil.

The rage helped – it always had made it easier for her to ignore her own physical pain. Endorphins, the prison counselor said. Whatever the reason, it was enough to propel her back to the bed, where she poked her protective, beautiful, caring, _utterly creepy_ not-husband awake.

“We need to talk,” she said, watching him blink, annoyed at how hoarse her own voice was.

Thranduil winced in the lantern-light, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Some small part of her did feel bad for waking him, but it was a _small_ part. While she wasn’t exactly looking forward to this, her blood boiled anyway.

 _Calm, Lorna_ , she ordered herself. Even knowing the wound that lay beneath is magical mask, he was still annoyingly perfect where he lay, his pale hair spread out almost like a corona on his pillow, entirely serene in his sleep. She wouldn’t yell at him, but keeping her temper was not something she exactly had much practice with. She settled for poking him, none too gently.

Thranduil was visibly confused when he woke, but he went still when he saw her expression. She didn’t doubt that he had no idea why she wore it, given his complete lack of awareness of how wrong his actions were.

“Lorna?” he said warily, sitting to face her.

The wrath burned hot as magma in her veins, but she kept a desperate leash on it. “You do not own me, Thranduil,” she said, her voice remarkably even, if also very hoarse. “If I someday need or want to take a trip out of Lasgaelen, _you will not follow me_.” 

He froze. He sat so still anyway that the change was minute, but Lorna saw it. “I never said that I did.”

Her hands clenched, nails biting into her fists. “No, but you’ve acted like it. You stalk me –”

“I’ve stopped that,” he said. 

“Only because you always know where I am when I’m not with you,” she snapped. “I can’t leave Lasgaelen right now for a number’v reasons, but can you _really_ say you’d not follow me if I could?”

Thranduil hesitated for a moment. “No,” he said. “I could not.”

Her eyes narrowed. His response was not a surprise, but it infuriated her anyway. “Let me get one thing through your head right now, Thranduil Oropherion – I don’t care if you _are_ a king, you have _no right_ to hunt me like a damn animal. I’ve tried to put it out’v my mind all this time, but I can’t do that anymore. I won’t.”

Something very like panic flashed through his pale eyes. Whatever else Thranduil might be, he was not a liar; he would not make her empty promises. “Lorna, do you trust me?” he asked, and though most would not have heard his hesitance, she did.

She too hesitated, for there was no simple answer. “I want to,” she said slowly. “I know that you’re doing everything in your power to keep us all safe, and that you’ll keep doing it, come hell or high water. I know that you love me, but given your…methods, I question just how healthy that love really is. Just what else’ve you done, that you’ve not told me of?”

“Not much,” he said, meeting her gaze steadily. “Yes, I have followed you; yes, I have, as you put it, lurked without a permit – but Lorna, you knew that. Why is it only now troubling you?”

She sighed, pacing, the floor cold beneath her bare feet. “It’s troubled me some off and on for months now. That was _wrong_ , Thranduil, and though you say you understand that now, you also sit there and tell me you’d do it again if I left. I don’t think you really _do_ get it.” Christ, her head still felt like it was going to split in half. This wasn’t like any morning-after headache she’d ever had before; something might as well have been squeezing her brain.

“Perhaps I do not,” he said quietly, his voice entirely without inflection. “I will be perfectly honest with you, Lorna: the only reason I care at all is because _you_ care. If it did not bother you so, I would not stop.”

Lorna winced, rubbing her temples. She supposed she ought to be grateful for that honesty, but part of her still wished he hadn’t said it. “And you don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“No,” he admitted, rising. Thank bloody God he’d kept his trousers on last night – she didn’t need any distractions. “Sit,” he added. “I will bring you something for your head.”

She didn’t want to sit, but she felt so sick that she did anyway, perching on the edge of the bed. Thranduil handed her a bottle of cut green glass, its contents smelling and tasting of cinnamon and vanilla. She downed half of it at one go, sighing with relief when it sent to work almost immediately. Her unsettled stomach calmed, the ache of dehydration draining from her muscles. The pain in her head, however, lingered – if anything, it had grown worse, stabbing just above her left eye. Lorna wasn’t at all prone to migraines, but this felt like what she’d always heard them described as.

“Lorna?” Concern had overtaken the wariness in Thranduil’s tone.

“It’s nothing,” she said, shutting her eyes. “My head still hurts like a bitch, is all. Thranduil, you need to learn why what you’ve done is wrong. I don’t know how I’m to teach you that, but I’ve got to. You might not be human, but you need to understand us if you’re to continue living with us.” She rubbed her forehead, pressing the heel of her hand over her eye, as though doing so would actually do any good.

“Lorna…” He touched her cheek, and when she opened her eyes, she found his already fair skin had gone even paler, blatant worry in his eyes. “Lorna, there is something wrong with you. I do not say this to distract you – castigate me all you like later, but your head should not still pain you so. Not after that tonic.”

She wondered just how bad she looked, for him to be that worried. “Haven’t you got anything stronger?” She really didn’t want to be derailed, but she didn’t think he was deliberately trying to. “Or do Elves not get headaches?”

“Only when we are wounded,” he said, his eyes traveling over her face. “I might have something, however. Stay –”

Blackness overtook her before he could finish the sentence.

\--

Being berated so soon in the morning after a night of drinking was not how Thranduil preferred to wake, but he would prefer it – prefer _anything_ – to Lorna abruptly pitching gracelessly forward, limp as a corpse.

He caught her before she could hit the floor, panic spiking through him. Edain were so terribly fragile, but they rarely, so far as he knew, dropped dead for no reason at all. Mercifully, she was still breathing; when he laid a hand over her heart, its rhythm was sure and steady. She was simply unconscious, for whatever reason.

Carefully, he laid her back on the bed, brushing the tangled hair out of her face. Blood was leaking from her nose, bright and sluggish, and he had no idea at all what that _meant_. Was it dangerous? He still knew so very little of Edain bodies. Her skin was ashier than he had ever seen it, even when she was in labor with the twins, nearly bloodless.

He couldn’t take her to the healers – he couldn’t leave the twins alone, but neither could he carry all three of them. Thank Eru for the mobile black things Mairead had given them. Thranduil pulled Lorna’s from the pocket of her coat, poking at it as he had seen her do. Though he could not read her language, he had learned basic use of it by the pictures alone. Mairead’s number had a very small picture of her beside it, and he pressed the screen until he heard a ringing sound.

It went on far longer than he liked, though in reality it was less than thirty seconds. “Lord Thranduil, this is extremely bad timing,” was her greeting, her voice strained. “We’ve a problem here.”

“I have a problem _here_ ,” he said, more harshly than he intended. “Something is wrong with Lorna. I need to take her to the healer, but I cannot leave the twins. You or someone must come and get them.”

Momentary silence greeted that. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She woke this morning with pain in her head,” he said, running his fingers down the side of Lorna’s face. “I had thought it the effect of all the wine, but it persisted and appeared to worsen even after I gave her a tonic against the effects. She abruptly lost consciousness, and now there is blood dripping from her nose.”

“…Well, _shit_. I’ll come, but like I said, there’s trouble here, too. Whatever you did yesterday, I think it might’ve been more than you ought.” Only she could sound so very disapproving even through distress.

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s no point in me trying to explain,” she said. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough. I’ll meet you in your place.”

She hung up, and left Thranduil infuriated as well as afraid. He gathered up all of Lorna’s things, wiping her nose with a clean sock before bundling her up. She didn’t stir; her limbs remained pliant and inanimate as a doll’s. Thankfully the twins still remained asleep, though they would need to be changed before her sister took them.

Thranduil went to them as soon as he had Lorna ready to travel, half afraid he would find them ill as well, but they looked as they always did, strong and healthy. If this was some malady, he prayed that their Eldar half would keep them safe.

\--

Mairead had been watching the news all morning, shaking her head. She’d been afraid Lord Thranduil’s interference would have consequences, and it would seem she’d been right.

All over Ireland, things were going to absolute hell – fires, minor floods, and, as of 10:13, an actual bloody _earthquake_ in Dublin. A proper one, too, seven point something on the Richter scale, which just didn’t _happen_ in Ireland. Ever. Even small ones were bloody rare, and even more rarely centered in the island itself. This one had actually rattled the china even here in Lasgaelen.

So she watched, downing endless cups of tea, right up until she heard sirens in the village. It was such a rare sound that everyone inevitably turned up to see just what the hell was going on – and she’d been about to do just that when Lord Thranduil called. She’d never heard him so close to panic before, and she hoped she never would again, for it was just _wrong_. Mairead herself wasn’t nearly as worried just yet; he likely had no experience with human morning-afters, and nosebleeds were hardly drastic in and of themselves. Alcohol itself was a blood-thinner, come to that.

Still, she shrugged into her coat anyway, stuffing her feet into her boots and hoping like hell nothing had gone too wrong in the village. She hadn’t heard any explosions, so that had to be a good sign.

When she headed out into the morning sun, she found the air bracing, but not as frigid as it had been. Between melting and a herd of people stomping all over the fields, she shouldn’t have much trouble getting over them in the Explorer; the thing was tall enough that she oughtn’t get high-centered anywhere. No, she couldn’t take it into the forest, but it saved having to haul two baby carriers all the way back to the house. 

The engine roared when she started it, and she eyed the fuel gauge. She’d filled it up before coming back from Kildare, but God knew how long it was going to have to last, and Explorers weren’t exactly known for their fuel efficiency. She’d do this to set Lord Thranduil’s mind at ease, but after this, it was going to have to be emergencies only.

The snow on the fields was no longer remotely pristine – in addition to the blackened circles that had held last night’s fires, there was practically a carpet of soggy firework leavings. Even with the windows shut, the smell of sulfur worked its way into the cab, and Mairead wrinkled her nose. While the SUV lurched along, it didn’t actually manage to get stuck on anything.

She turned on the radio, fiddling with the dial until she found actual news.

“—no word so far on what’s behind all this, but terrorism doesn’t seem likely,” a female DJ was saying. “Why disguise an act’v terror as mostly natural phenomena? The arson hasn’t been used in any landmarks’v significance, and most’v the floods seem to be coming right out’v the  
ground, not utility lines. To say nothing’v the _earthquake_. I’ve not heard’v any weapon that could do that outside’v my kid brother’s comics.”

“We’ve no major fault lines, though,” a man protested.

“I can’t think’v any weapon that’d create one that wouldn’t’ve leveled Dublin at the least,” she retorted. “And sure, the government would’ve said if it was terrorism. There’d not be complete _silence_.”

Mairead wondered how long it would take for some crackpot to cry, “Magic!” For once, the crackpots would be right. She’d say she hoped Lord Thranduil would be proud of himself, if she wasn’t half afraid he _would_ be.

One of the DJ’s apparently decided R.E.M.’s _It’s the End of the World as We Know It_ was the appropriate theme tune, because it came blaring over through the speakers. Mairead shut the radio off, gliding the SUV to a halt at the edge of the forest. Whatever was going on, at least the government had more to concern itself with than little, out-of-the-way Lasgaelen now.

Enough people had trod through the forest that she didn’t have a difficult time at all making her way through it, though the hike was still longer than her legs enjoyed. It was strange how disconnected this place felt from the outside world, no matter how many times she visited it – how it always seemed a touch warmer, even if that was some kind of illusion. The air in Lasgaelen was always fresh compared to any more urban areas, but in the forest it seemed as though it had never known a single pollutant.

It took longer to get there than Lord Thranduil would probably like, but if she was to hike back out lugging two baby carriers, she needed to have _some_ energy left. The snow squelched rather than squeaked now, sucking a little at her boots with every step – this was not going to be pleasant, and she hoped like hell that Lorna would be awake by the time she got there. If her bloody sister was capable of walking under her own steam, maybe Lord Thranduil could carry one of them.

The massive wooden door eased open as soon as she touched it, letting her into the incongruous warmth of his halls. Mairead had only been to his room once, but it wasn’t terribly difficult to find, and it wasn’t as though there was a crowd of people to get in her way. Even now, worried and irritated though she was, the vast silence pained her in a way she couldn’t define. What she found when she reached Lord Thranduil’s room, however, gave her pause.

He had all the lamps lit, the fire burning high, and the twins both neatly wrapped up and packed in their carriers. He himself was as impeccably dressed as always, a tunic of a red so deep it was nearly black – but his hair was ever so slightly mussed, and for once in his life, she could read him like a book.

He was terrified.

It wasn’t blatant, no; someone who didn’t know him might not have seen it, but there was in his pale eyes a fear she would not have thought him capable of. From what Mairead could see of Lorna, who lay on the sofa swathed in his black coat, her condition didn’t bear out that worry; yes, she was unconscious, but her nose no longer bled, and there could be any number of reasons she was so thoroughly out. She hadn’t had a great deal to eat last night, unless she’d eaten here; on top of a large amount of alcohol, it would be little wonder. Mairead was not one to panic prematurely, but Lord Thranduil, knowing so very little of human bodies, could be forgiven for it. This time, anyway.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” she said. “Doc Barry’ll set her to rights. She might just need fluids. We dehydrate easily, us humans, and I’m sure she drank like a fish last night.”

“She did,” he said slowly, lifting Lorna off the sofa. She was entirely inert, completely dead weight, but she didn’t look like she was about to choke, and her color, while pale, wasn’t unduly so. She looked, well, rather like someone with a raging morning-after.

“Then she might well wake again and sick up all over your fancy robe…thing.” Mairead shook her head, picking up the baby carriers. The twins had grown so much in so short a time that her back was going to ache like a bitch by the time they reached the Explorer. Lorna owed her for this, and she owed big-time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you know how I said Thranduil and Big Jamie were going to regret wishing for a distraction? Yeah. They don't yet know just how much they'll regret it. In the M series, magic didn’t turn up for another four years, but the M series didn’t have Thranduil fucking with it. In the books, it cropped up worldwide overnight, but Thranduil didn’t cough up quite enough to manage that now – all he managed to do was screw over Ireland, which is bad enough. And, rather like a plague, it will spread.
> 
> Why did Lorna keel over? If you’ve read _Ettelëa_ , you might have a good idea. If not, you shall see. Her conversation with Thranduil is not over, either – it’s merely been postponed.
> 
> Title means “Disaster” in Irish. As ever, your reviews keep me going.


	24. Fáilte go hIfreann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which everything goes to hell. Thranduil tries to help with a handbasket, but it goes to hell nonetheless.
> 
> Many thanks to [Nirva](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirva), who corrected the Russian that Google Translate mangled the first time around.

Nuala was ready to choke someone.

Bad enough she’d woken with one hell of a morning-after – she hadn’t needed their fifth prisoner trying to escape, banjaxing his leg in the process. She’d rang Doc Barry for help, only to find the doctor had evidently gone insane.

“I don’t know if she’s been drugged or what,” her husband said, “but I’m bringing her in. She’s not hit her head, but she says she’s seeing lights – auras – around me and Old Orla.”

Nuala wasn’t exactly sure what _she_ was meant to do about it, but she promised she’d try, and hung up. She had no way to test for much of anything beyond marijuana, and Doc Barry wasn’t that sort.

A siren wailed before she’d halfway assembled her testing kit – it had to be the village’s lone fire truck, since she’d not called for an ambulance. If anybody was going to set something on fore, she’d have thought it would be last night.

With a sigh, she knocked their idiot prisoner out with a dose of morphine, and set about prepping a few rooms. Like as not she’d be dealing with nothing more than some surface burns, but it paid to be safe. She _hoped_ it wouldn’t be more than that – she wasn’t exactly qualified to deal with anything worse, and it sounded like Doc was away with the fairies. A &E wasn’t an option with the village cut off; whatever happened would be down to her to deal with.

God bloody help her.

She went to look out the front window, and spotted a billow of black smoke coming from Fourth Avenue. A few people went running down the street – Old Orla and Young Orla, who’d probably been opening up the pub, as well as Dai and his da. Across the street, Molly stuck her head out the door to the Market. Up until Lord Thranduil made his presence known, so little happened in Lasgaelen that anything that _did_ wound up a spectator sport, and apparently old habits really did die hard.

It was Sveta who first arrived – a Sveta who was uninjured, but exasperated almost to the point of fury. Her white face was blotched with red, a storm brewing in her pale eyes as she brushed past Nuala.

“You can thank your Lord Thranduil for this,” she said, shrugging off her green coat. “I do not know how many you will have in this village, but Ireland is a mess.”

“What’s happened?” Nuala asked, uncertain she wanted to know.

“Your Elf – his magic, it set off _something_ ,” Sveta snapped. “Some of you are now some of us, and none of you can control it. Miranda is coming, God help us all.”

Nuala had only met the woman once, but she echoed the sentiment. “You mean he’s somehow _made_ some’v us have magic?” she asked. “ _How?_ ”

“If anyone knows the answer, it is not me,” Sveta said, peeling off her gloves. “My guess is that even he does not. What he did shouldn’t have been enough to cause this on its own.”

“I’m sure Mairead’ll call him, if she hasn’t already. How – how many’v us in the village might…have it?”

“At least one, if that fire’s any indication,” Sveta snorted. “I will calm down whoever it is. With uncontrolled gifts, that is all that can be done at first – but I have never seen any that were _truly_ uncontrolled. This should not be possible. Either you’re born with magic, or you are not.”

“Then how does this Miranda know what this is?” Nuala asked, following her back to the exam rooms.

“They measured a spike in what little magical activity there normally is. More than what your Lord Thranduil ought to have managed. She said if he’s somehow started some kind of cascade effect, she’ll kill him.”

Nuala would rather like to see _that_ duel. Granted, if this turned out to be an actual disaster, she’d probably help.

There was a small TV in the break room, one that might be near as old as Nuala herself. She hurried back to turn it on, wanting to catch a few precious moments before any patients arrived.

She got some reporter on ground level in Dublin – a reporter whose camera pointed at an appallingly dark sky. Never in all her life had she seen such clouds, and Ireland could get some spectacular squalls off the Irish Sea. They massed and churned with unnatural speed, the hue of a fresh bruise. Lightning forked silver veins among them, and _that_ was a surprise; thunderstorms were rare so close to the ocean, though not entirely unheard-of. Nuala was pretty sure none this dramatic had ever occurred in her lifetime – and never, to her knowledge, like this one, which didn’t yet look to be producing a drop of rain.

“What in God’s bloody name….”

“Weather-manipulator,” Sveta said, coming up behind her. “I am sure of it. Without control, this is what they do. The fires must be pyrokinetics, and it would only take one terrakinetic to cause that earthquake. These people might not even know these things are their doing – and those that do will be terrified. I can’t imagine what it would be like, to wake up with something you can’t control. Something you might not even have believed in.”

Nuala crossed herself out of pure habit, unable to tear her eyes from the screen. Wind was rendering whatever the reporter was trying to say incomprehensible. “How many would it take, to do that?” she asked. “How many weather people?”

“Depending on the strength of the gift, possibly just one,” Sveta said, not a little grimly. “Some of us have very powerful abilities, but others can have very little. As I said, though, this shouldn’t be possible. God knows what will happen to these people physically as a result.”

 _That_ was a horrific thought, but not one Nuala could afford to ignore. “Lord Thranduil said that if everything ever went bad, we should call home all’v our people who’ve left. He said _something_ was coming – he just didn’t think it would be so soon.”

“I doubt he expected it to be his fault, either,” Sveta said tartly.

Nuala heard the front door open, and went to confront the day’s first casualty.

\--

All right, now Mairead was getting a bit worried.

Lorna remained utterly dead weight, so deeply unconscious that she didn’t stir the entire way to the SUV. Her nose started bleeding again halfway there, though only a little, and Mairead tried to convince Lord Thranduil that nosebleeds were not uncommon among humans, and usually not a big deal.

“It’s only a bit,” she said, loading the carriers into the SUV. Of course she hadn’t got anything like car seats, but it was a short drive with no real obstacles, or so she hoped. “It’ll stop on its own, trust me. We’ll have her at the surgery in maybe ten minutes.” It would have been less, if not for the snow, but she wasn’t taking any chances with the twins in the car. Lord Thranduil sat in the back to hold onto them, while Lorna’s inert form slumped in the passenger’s seat.

A column of black smoke rose over the village, though Mairead couldn’t see any flames – that would explain the siren, at least. Could it be seen, rising through the top of Lord Thranduil’s enchantment? _That_ would look bloody weird.

Main Street, unsurprisingly, was swarmed – it looked like half the village had turned up, and most of them were likely in it for the street theater. She had to park the Explorer half a block away. Worryingly, a number were clustered around the surgery, and she hoped nobody had got themselves burned too badly.

They scattered like chickens when Lord Thranduil strode through, hauling Lorna as though she weighed nothing at all. Lucky bastard – Mairead’s back and arms ached like a bitch, but she dragged the twins out and followed him. Amazingly, neither one had yet cried, though she didn’t trust it to last.

A red-faced, very harassed Nuala met them in the waiting room, and paled at the sight. Mairead didn’t wonder why – his expression was downright terrifying.

“She lost consciousness,” he said, without preamble. “I do not know why. Her nose has done…that…intermittently since.”

“Bring her here,” Nuala ordered. “It’s just me right now. Doc’s lost her marbles.”

 _That_ sent cold spiking through Mairead. “What does that mean?”

“She sees auras,” Nuala said, leading the lot of them back to a room. “Sveta said it’s a gift, like her people’ve got. Right now the poor woman’s too distracted to be’v any use. Miranda’s on her way with help, but since they’ve got to get here from some field in the middle’v County Carlow, it’ll be a while. Here, set her down and I’ll check her vitals,” she told Lord Thranduil.

He did, as carefully as though he thought she’d shatter if he moved wrong. She looked worse than she’d had when Mairead first saw her – her face was outright grey now, ashy and bloodless.

Nuala stuck a thermometer in Lorna’s ear, and sighed with relief when she checked it. “Well, she’s not got a fever, at least. I’ll set her up with some saline – see if we can’t get her hydrated.” She bustled out of the room for a moment, and Mairead set the twins on the two chairs crammed against the wall. This room was too bloody small, and would have been even if Lord Thranduil hadn’t been approximately giant-sized.

They both stepped out of the way when Nuala returned, and Mairead was relieved to see that, ruffled though she was, it hadn’t affected her efficiency. Once she had Lorna’s IV set up, she checked her vitals, and frowned.

“What is it?” Lord Thranduil asked, watching them both with unnerving intensity.

“Well, her blood pressure’s so low it’s no wonder she passed out,” Nuala said, unfastening the cuff. “It’s hear heart rate that worries me. Her pulse is down to twenty-eight beats per minute.”

“That’s bad?” Mairead asked.

“It ought to be _impossible_ , given that her normal resting rate is about seventy per minute,” Nuala said. “On the other hand, it’s kept her nose from bleeding any worse – which is a bloody good thing, since we haven’t got any viable plasma after the power cut.”

“Can you do anything about it?” he demanded, an edge to his voice from him that made Mairead shuffle away from him as much as she was able.

“In here? No,” Nuala said bitterly. “Though even if I had more equipment, there’s not much to be done but keep her hydrated. Her heartbeat’s slow, but it’s steady – she’s not fibrillating.”

Lord Thranduil let out something very like a snarl. “Once upon a time, I could have cured her myself. I might have something that can help, though I do not know how well it will work after so very long. Mistress Mairead, I need you to drive me back to the forest.”

His voice and his eyes were so cold that that was the last thing she wanted to do, but she hadn’t got much choice.

“I’ll keep an eye on the twins while you’re gone,” Nuala promised. “At this point, I’ll take what I can get.”

\--

When Lorna woke, she had no idea how long she’d been out, but she felt like hell.

At first, she had no idea where she was; her fuzzy vision refused to focus until she had blinked a few times, and found herself confronted by the speckled ceiling tiles of the surgery. The mattress of the hospital bed was unfortunately hard, the scent of antiseptic so strong it was nauseating.

This much she registered, but nothing more, for her head was crammed with thoughts and images that made it impossible to focus on much of anything – a jumble of words and pictures without order or coherence. Had someone slipped her acid while she was out?

 _She saw fire – fire through Siobhan’s eyes, coming from God only knew where, the stench of burning fabric all but overpowering. Confusion and utter terror squeezed at her heart, at_ Siobhan’s _heart, as all that she touched went up in flames._

_A flash of Big Jamie, scared and wracked with guilt, wondering if his wish for a distraction had brought this about. Young Orla, operating under a hazy idea that getting the children toward the fields would keep them safe; Kevin and Daniel, Dai’s father, manhandling fire hoses that spat water still filled with uneven chunks of ice._

Lorna pressed her hands to her forehead, shutting her eyes, as though she expected that to actually do any good. The sluggish beeping of the heart monitor to her right sped up, and she let out a low, formless moan of inarticulate horror. It didn’t hurt, precisely, and somehow that only made it worse; at least pain would have been a distraction.

Someone hurried into the room – Nuala, Nuala awash in panic she dared not show, even as she caught Lorna’s wrists, drawing her hands away from her face.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she said. “Don’t do that again. You’re going to be fine.”

“My head,” Lorna groaned, trying to curl into a ball. “Sure Christ, they’re in my _head_ , get it _out_!” She didn’t know what it was, or why they were in her head, and she didn’t care. Finding her own thoughts amid so much chaos was all but impossible.

“Oh, motherfucker,” Nuala breathed. “Sveta! Sveta, we might have another one!”

More footsteps, but calm, now, soothing as bam to a burn. It didn’t make the nightmare stop, but the terror of it was less immediate.

“Look at me, Lorna,” Sveta ordered, and Lorna did, because she couldn’t think of what else to do. “Talk to me. Tell me what is wrong.”

“My head,” Lorna managed. “They’re in my head. Not everyone, but so many. Siobhan, she’s burnt her house down, and Mick, he’s got roses everywhere, but he doesn’t want anyone to know.”

Sveta sucked a sharp breath, her sudden fear hitting Lorna like a brick to the gut. “Mater bozh'ya, tolko ne eto,” she said, looking away.

Unfortunately for Sveta, Lorna still remembered enough Russian to understand _that_. “Vy ne mozhete mne pomoch, pravda?”

The woman winced. “I did not say that. Once you are stable, we will send you back with your husband until we can find help. At least your mind will be quieter away from so many people.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“It’s telepathy,” Sveta said gently, and Lorna’s odd sense of calm deepened. “It is very rare, but we will find a way to help you.”

Lorna’s eyes narrowed. “ _How_ rare?”

Sveta hesitated. “We have known of only one other in the last century, and he must never know of your existence. Fortunately, in this village, he never will. Rest now, Malyutka. I can’t take away these thoughts, but I can take away the fear.”

\--

Once Lorna was essentially too stoned to care _what_ was going on around her, Sveta hauled Nuala to the break room, well away from Lorna’s room.

“This is bad,” she said. “The others, we have people who can train them, but not her. That husband of hers can try, but his magic is different. At the very least, he can build her a wall to keep others out.”

“I don’t know that he’d dare try,” Nuala said. “Not after what’s happened to some’v the others.”

Sveta snorted. “He had better,” she said darkly. “If he does not, she may well lose her mind.”

Nuala frowned. If put that way, Lord Thranduil _might_ be a bit more willing. “If only he’d not gone and got her up the yard, none’v this would be happening,” she sighed. “Why couldn’t he just ask her for a date, like a normal person?”

“It would only have delayed things,” Sveta pointed out, pouring herself a cup of tar-like coffee. “They would likely have had children sooner or later, and this would have happened anyway.”

“I guess,” Nuala said, grabbing a two-day-old donut. “Is this going to keep happening? Are we going to be looking at more and more people in the next few days?”

“I wish I knew,” Sveta said. “Miranda has contingency plans for everything, though, no matter how unlikely. I would be very surprised if she didn’t have one for this, impossible though it ought to be.”

“I hope you’re right,” Nuala sighed.

\--

Thranduil seethed as he strode through the forest. Hundreds of years ago, he could easily have taken care of Lorna – of all of them – but, like a fool, he’d let the athelas in the forest die out. He hadn’t thought there would ever be any more need of it.

There were still things in the healing wards, but none of them were as effective, and all were so old that some might not be useful at all.

That Lorna’s heart beat steadily was a boon, at least. While Nuala looked disturbed, she did not seem to believe Lorna would suddenly die without reason. His wife was in the best hands she could be, under the circumstances, and his children were safe with their aunt. It could be worse.

No sooner had he finished the thought than thunder cracked overhead, a blast of warm air gusting through the trees. It stirred his hair, tugging at his tunic, and he wondered what in Eru’s name had gone wrong _now_. Never in all his life had he felt so much magic free-floating in the air, desperately seeking to ground itself.

What, exactly, had he truly done?

Yes, he had exerted magic in weaving his enchantment, but not _near_ enough to cause even a spike in the background magic of the world, let alone cause this. His actions might have been the catalyst, but they were not the cause. If he was sure of nothing else, he was sure of that.

When at last he reached the healing wards, he gathered all that he hoped might be useful. He would ask Miranda for aid in bringing the village’s far-flung inhabitants home, where they would safely retreat to the caverns if necessary. Whatever else happened, he would keep his people safe.

At least Lorna trusted him to do that, he thought, as he packed glass bottles into a cushioned wooden box. He really should have seen of that coming, after all he had said, but he wasn’t going to lie to her. He _had_ stalked her, and would have kept on if she had turned him away, but he failed to see how that was wrong. He had a duty to protect his children, even if she wanted nothing to do with him – and to protect her as well, since he had given her those children.

No, he didn’t think it was wrong, but obviously she found it very much so, and likely wouldn’t let the matter be until he understood her reasoning. She was a remarkably stubborn creature, when she wanted to be.

Stubborn enough that he trusted her to recover, with or without his intervention, but he was going to intervene all he could. At the very least, he could make this less unpleasant for her. Once she was well, she could berate him all she liked.

When he returned aboveground, the wind was howling, the trees creaking under the strain. Such a very warm wind, jarringly out-of-place for the depths of winter. Even Thranduil, who had some mastery over his own land, could not have done this. The magic tingled on his skin, alive and almost with a will of its own. It was seeking, but what, he did not know.

He’d never thought he would come to this, but he wished for Galadriel’s counsel. While she had likely never seen anything like this before, either, she might have a better idea what to do. Or any idea at all. King though he was, he had never been counted among the Wise. Oh, an invitation to join the White Council had been issued, but since they didn’t trust him with one of the Three, he hadn’t bothered. No Ring for Thranduil Oropherion, cursed and tainted by dragonfire. No calling to Valinor, to Aman – he was unwanted.

If the Valar still watched this world, they had none but themselves to blame for what he did to it.

Another crack of thunder split the air, and with it a few drops of rain warm as bath water. If this turned into a deluge, they would wind up with a flood from all the melting snow. At least it would give the others outside yet another distraction.

He would see if Miranda would take his prisoners off his hands – prisoners who still needed breakfast, but he would deal with that later. One skipped meal wouldn’t kill them. At this point, he might be able to simply release them. Eru knew there was little they could do that was worse than what was already going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil, you should know better than to think things like that. You really should.
> 
> Sveta says “Mother of God, not this” in Russian, and calls Lorna ‘Little One’. Lorna’s response is “What does that mean? You can’t help me, can you?”
> 
> Title means “Hell says hello” in Irish. As ever, your reviews are my (and this story’s) lifeblood.


	25. Faigheann sé Níos measa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ireland continues to go to hell, the villagers prepare to move in with Thranduil again, and Lorna enjoys his help a little too much.
> 
> Many thanks to [Nirva](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirva), who made certain all the Russian spoken in this chapter actually made sense.

Siobhan, amazingly, had no actual burns to speak of. Her clothing was singed and charred in places, but her skin was undamaged. The only thing she’d suffered from was smoke inhalation, as had those who tried to save her house.

Currently she was occupying one of the infirmary beds, blitzed out on Sveta’s empathic equivalent of marijuana, too calm to set fire to anything else. Likewise, Mick wasn’t making any more greenery spontaneously grow.

It was only a stopgap measure, but it would hold until Miranda brought help. Once they were certain Lorna would stay stabilized, they were sending her back with Lord Thranduil, where she would at least be away from so many minds she couldn’t shut out. It ought to work until he felt comfortable trying to build her a proper block.

Doc Barry seemed content to watch the news; when Nuala had the chance to see a bit herself, she found that things had only grown worse. A national emergency had been declared, for all the good it was doing. Most people really didn’t seem to be doing this on purpose, and, of course, trying to arrest the more destructive ones was impossible.

But even the more benign of abilities were causing chaos. The screen showed an aerial view of the M7, currently covered over with creeping vines. A few people were trying to cut a path, to no avail; as soon as one was severed, two more took its place.

Even through her distraction, Nuala realized that the majority of these seemed to be nature-based – which, if this really was Lord Thranduil’s fault, wasn’t surprising. She doubted it was going to be producing many technopaths.

Thank God they had _theirs_ , or she wouldn’t be able to see all of this. Unfortunately, all that foliage meant that Miranda and whoever she brought with her would have a hell of a time getting here.

“The Doors are stationary,” Sveta had said. “They are where they want to be, and nothing we can do will move them. Miranda will find a way here.”

Nuala hoped it wouldn’t take _too_ long. Lord Thranduil had brought her a box of goodies, but she didn’t know how to use any of them. It left her feeling rather superfluous.

She left to check on Lorna, and got a nasty surprise in what she found.

The woman’s vitals _had_ been something close to normal, her olive skin no longer ashy. Now, though – he hadn’t been in her room for five minutes, yet her pulse and her blood pressure had dropped back into the toilet, her pallor nearly that of a corpse.

“ _Jesus_.” Even as Nuala ran to check the machines, blood leaked from Lorna’s nose, shockingly bright against the washed-out grey of her skin. Once again, she’d utterly lost consciousness, and even through Nuala’s sudden panic, a thought occurred to her.

“It’s you,” she said, dragging out an oxygen canister. “Lord Thranduil, you’ve got to get out’v the room. She was fine after you left, but now you’re back and _this_ happens.”

The glare he bent on Nuala was nearly enough to make her piss herself. His pale eyes were like chips of ice, but there was nothing at all impassive about him now. For a moment, she was afraid he’d break her neck.

“It’s telepathy,” she said desperately, wiping Lorna’s nose before affixing the mask. “She’s got it, _you’ve_ got it, and this only seems to happen when you’re near her, so don’t _be_ near her.” Nuala was rather surprised at the vehemence in her own voice – she hadn’t intended it at all. “Go ask Sveta – maybe she knows why.”

Lord Thranduil continued to glare at her with such ferocity that she shuddered, but a glance at Lorna got him moving. Hopefully the break room was far enough away that his influence, or whatever it was, would lift. If not, Nuala was going to have to kick him out of the clinic, and she didn’t even want to guess what he would do then. She was bright enough to realize that Lorna was the only one out of all of them that he actually listened to, but Lorna needed to be able to speak first. God help all of them if this somehow killed her.

\--

Thranduil burst into the tiny room with the equally tiny television, two seconds away from actual murder.

Its only occupant was Sveta, who regarded him with a surprising amount of equanimity. A measure of calm washed over him when he met her pale eyes, soothing his raging heart. She held a cup of that bitter sludge the Edain called coffee, and sipped it while he glared at her.

“Nuala said my mind is killing my wife,” he said flatly.

“It’s very possible,” Sveta said, still calm. “How old are you, Lord Thranduil?”

“Somewhere around six thousand years,” he said, pacing as much as the small room would let him. “Why?”

“Your wife has your six thousand years of memories bearing down upon her mind. It is little wonder hers cannot stand it. You need to build her a barrier – both to keep other thoughts from invading her mind, and to keep your own from destroying it.”

He paused mid-step. “I will not risk damage to her.”

Sveta rolled her eyes. “You do not need to go _into_ her mind,” she said. “Just make a barrier around it. She has no way of making one herself, and we do not have anyone who can teach her. You are the only one who can do this.”

She was so reasonable he had an irrational urge to strike her. Though of touching Lorna’s mind was abhorrent, after what he had done to the two policemen. No, he would not be doing anything similar, but it still send a tendril of dread curling through him.

“Even if you leave her alone, if you stay away, the others will drive her insane,” Sveta said. “I can keep her distracted for a time, but not forever. You can do this because you must.” Her gaze was placid but unwavering.

“Not yet,” he said. “She must recover, and I must be able to—”

His words were cut off when the entire building jerked, the floor momentarily dropping from beneath him. The lights flickered, the table migrating across the room with a screech of metal upon tile, and his stomach apparently wanted to join it.

Sveta tried to brace herself against the wall, only for it to crack beneath her hand, a fissure the width of her thumb splitting the faded yellow paper.

Thranduil caught the television before it could hit the floor. He had weathered many earthquakes before he came to Eire, but this one felt unnatural. The earth was being twisted by forces beyond its control – twisted so violently that he suspected the cause lived somewhere in the village. 

It went on for nearly a minute, while Sveta swore – for it could only be swearing – in a language he did not understand.

A number were swearing in English, too - swearing, and screaming. As soon as the earth was somewhat steady beneath his feet, he ran to check on Lorna, and wondered where in Eru’s name Mairead had taken his children.

Lorna was groggy but unhurt, and he left before he could do her any more harm. _How_ had he wrought this? It could not possibly be his doing alone. Perhaps he had merely been the match to what the Edain called gunpowder, some store that none of them had known existed. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if this kept on as it was.

The stone of the road was cracked in places, several of the poles that held the power lines tilted at drunken angles. Mairead’s vehicle was still parked outside; hopefully she had gone to the pub.

Several people he was only passingly acquainted with ran past, fleeing the thunderheads that bore down upon the village like a curse given form. Even Thranduil had forgotten just how much elemental _power_ this world had, power quite apart from magic, and now the two were combining into something uncontrollable.

He had promised he would not destroy this island, but he was afraid that he had, all unwitting, broken that promise. Edain seemed to be, by and large, silly creatures, their lives both narrow and swiftly over, but they did not deserve this. Cold though he could be, he was not heartless; yes, they died easily, but the thought that he had surely hastened more than a few of their deaths was not one he could bear just yet.

Instead he hurried to the pub, and was unspeakably relieved to find Mairead and both twins under the table. She looked ready to murder someone, and he was rather worried that it might be him.

“There is little point, Mistress Mairead,” he said, before she could speak. “There is nothing I can do about it myself.”

“I don’t suppose you know how long this’ll _last_ , do you?” she asked, crawling out from under the table.

“I do not, but I suspect Miranda might, whenever she arrives.”

“She’d better. This isn’t America or Japan – our buildings aren’t made to withstand real earthquakes.” She hauled the twins out from under the table, setting the carriers atop it. Incredibly, both seemed curious rather than frightened. “I think the mobile network’s down – I can’t reach Kevin.”

“My halls can withstand anything,” Thranduil said. “If this does not cease soon, you should all come with me again. I’m certain the technopaths can find a way to make your technology still function there.”

“We’d need half the car batteries in town,” Shivshankari said, crawling out from under another table. “We cannot just call it up out of nowhere. And you can forget the internet, unless it’s on your phone.”

“I thought you lot could do anything,” Mairead said, brushing dust off her sleeves.

Damodara snorted. “If only. Magic can be convenient, but only up to a point. We can set your car batteries onto a regenerative cycle, but it would take more work and far more supplies.”

Depending on how long this went on, that might be necessary – but then, if this kept on as it was, it was only a matter of time before Eire tore itself apart.

“We will do what we must,” Thranduil said. “I think it wise that all of you gather your things together, just in case. I do not like the thought of any of you sleeping in such flimsy constructions.”

“Oi, what’re you calling flimsy?” Big Jamie demanded.

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. “Master Jamie, I live in a cavern as old as this island. Compared to that, _everything_ is flimsy.”

“Fair point. How much can we bring?”

“However much you feel like hauling through two miles of forest,” Thranduil said dryly. “I could fit your village and everything in it ten times over, with room to spare.”

A small aftershock shuddered through the floor. “I’ll get Orla and the kids to gather some stuff,” Big Jamie said. “We can haul it on the pallet-truck. Never thought I’d say this, but I’d feel safer underground.”

“Sure Christ, we’ll never carry all we need,” Mairead sighed. “It’ll be three trips at least.”

“Old Sandy’s got a tractor,” Jamie said, pulling an empty cardboard box out from under the bar.

“ _No_. I will not have my forest torn up by your machinery,” Thranduil said. “Nothing has ever done so, and nothing is going to start now.” There were likely few places on this island that remained truly pristine, and he would not profane his land any more than necessary.

Getting ready to move would give them all something to do until Miranda arrived. He would build Lorna a shield as best he was able, and hope that it actually worked. In theory, it should not be difficult, but neither should minorly altering an Edain memory, and look at the mess he had made of _that_.

He glanced down at Nenya, gleaming on his right index finger. He’d had to re-size it when he took possession of it, though he seldom wore it. Perhaps it would aid him in his precision. At the very least, it couldn’t hurt. He knew that he could do nothing until Lorna was stabilized, which galled him far more than he liked. Helplessness was not a thing he was accustomed to, and he did not intend to be so for long.

\--

Miranda, Julifer, and their motorcycles stepped out into the field near Wicklow.

The Doors were invisible to the outside eye, and it was always a crapshoot as to whether or not anyone would see someone leaving one. That was not a worry right _now_ , however; Miranda doubted anyone would notice from even a dozen yard away.

The scent of smoke drifted on the slight, incongruously warm breeze – the scent of burning wood and burning rubber, which was far less pleasant. Even from here, she could see a massive structure fire in Wicklow, flames licking at the storm-dark sky.

Less obvious, perceptible only to the Gifted, was the tingle of magic, far more than she had ever felt in her life. It was out and it was running free, wild and far beyond any hope of containment.

Damn Lord Thranduil to whatever hell might exist.

She kick-started her motorcycle and took off across the field, Julifer beside her. Angry as Miranda was at the damn Elf, she knew there was no way this was wholly his fault – what she _didn’t_ know was what the hell else was at work. She was rarely blindsided, but she hadn’t seen this coming at all.

The DMA had ways of soaking up excess magic, of making sure this kind of thing didn’t happen, and none of them were working. She’d kept tabs on the few Gifted who lived wholly outside the DMA – all save Von Ratched, who they could rarely find, and who never lingered long once they had.

Even if he’d been capable of doing this, which he patently wasn’t, he wouldn’t. The bastard detested disorder of any kind – but that probably wouldn’t stop him coming here to investigate. His curiosity would probably compel him, though at least for now he’d have a hell of a time getting into the country.

No, it wasn’t him, or any of the other Gifted, but was Lord Thranduil _really_ the only Elf left? Oh, he said he’d know if there were others, but it was a big world, and some of the DMA’s sparse records indicated that not all Elves had been benevolent.

Not knowing drove her mad – though not as mad as the clogged motorway she and Julifer shortly reached. Some chloropath had evidently been hard at work, likely without meaning to; a net of morning-glories stretched clear across the road, a tangle some two stories high. Getting to Lasgaelen was going to take time they didn’t have.

\--

Lorna woke to a minor earthquake, and had to claw the oxygen mask off her face so she could sick up off the side of the bed. The sound of her vomit splattering on the tile only made her do it again.

“Fuck my life,” she groaned, spitting bile. She needed a glass of water, but that would involve hauling her sorry carcass off the bed.

How long had she been unconscious, and just what the hell had happened while she’d been out? Aside from a bloody earthquake. She considered shouting for someone, but decided it was too much effort. Sooner or later somebody would come in to make sure she wasn’t dead.

Christ, her head still hurt. It wasn’t like any other headache she’d ever had – it felt like her brain was pulsing, like something spiky had lodged itself in the center and was now trying to claw its way free. Some kind of heavy-duty opiate had dulled it, but it was still a little too _there_.

So were the thoughts that weren’t hers, but they seemed a step removed from her, lacking the terrifying urgency of earlier. It was more like being on some heavy-duty drugs, and God knew she had enough experience with _those._

 _It’s the end of the world as we know it_ , she thought. _I wish I felt fine._ Where were Thranduil and the twins? She didn’t doubt he’d got them somewhere safe, at least. For all his creepy lack of boundaries in some ways, there were other things she knew she could depend on him for. That conversation wasn’t over, but like hell did she want to continue it right now. That could happen once she was sure it actually _wasn’t_ the end of the world.

Sveta came striding in, wrinkling her nose at the smell. “Ty zakonchila?” she asked, forcing Lorna to actually have to think to come up with a response. She was pretty sure she’d just been asked if she was done sicking up.

“I think so,” she said. “I hope so.”

Sveta’s eyes narrowed. “In Russian,” she said. “You need to practice. Your accent is atrocious.”

Lorna racked her brain. “Dumaju, da. Nadejus',” she said carefully, though there wasn’t much point; her Irish accent persisted no matter what language she spoke. “V tjur'me vyuchila. I mnogo let ne razgovarivala.”

“Well, you will have time to learn. God knows we’ll probably be stuck for a while.”

Given that Thranduil still wanted her to learn Sindarin, it was a damn good thing she had an ear for languages. Still, she was likely to mix them up, at least at first. 

Why was she thinking about something so trivial? But then, the thoughts weren’t only hers; some of them had to be Sveta’s, for they were in Russian.

Christ, her head hurt.

It must have been obvious, for Sveta said, “Your husband will come and build you a block, to keep everyone else out of your head.”

Lorna didn’t bother saying Thranduil wasn’t actually her husband. He pretty much was, ceremony or no ceremony, no matter how creepy he could be. At the moment, that hardly mattered. “Where _is_ he?”

“Telling everyone to gather their things to move underground with him. Until these earthquakes stop, it’s not safe to stay here.”

“Earth _quakes_?” Lorna asked, struggling to sit up. “Plural?”

“You have missed much, during your nap,” Sveta said, shaking her head as she went to the sink, filling a plastic cup with some water. “If we had had any idea what your Lord Thranduil’s magic would do, we would have just relocated you all until your government could be dealt with.”

Lorna took the glass from her, washing her mouth out and leaning over to spit in the sink before taking an actual drink. “You wouldn’t have been able to shift most’v us,” she said. “Most’v them have lived their whole lives in Lasgaelen. I’m not sure they’d leave for anything short’v nuclear war – and there’s a few I’d wonder about even then.” It was a point of pride with Old Orla, that she’d only left Lasgaelen once in her entire life. The villagers had been strangely territorial even before Thranduil actively entered their lives; yes, there were many that had moved away once they reached adulthood, but those that stayed were stuck like barnacles.

“They ought to be ready for it anyway,” Sveta said. “We have no way of knowing yet just what is coming.”

Thranduil appeared in the doorway before she could say anything more – a Thranduil who, while a touch paler than normal, was in enviably full possession of himself. Exasperating and unsettling as he could be, Lorna really did love him, and she couldn’t help but smile a little now.

“Sveta believes I might be able to help you,” he said. “You must remain as calm as you can, under the circumstances, but I need not go into your mind – I simply must touch it.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Sveta said, squeezing past him. Lorna only half registered her leaving, because Thranduil’s plan disturbed her immensely.

“It will not harm you, Firieth Dithen,” he assured her, or tried to. Hard as he was to read, he didn’t sound entirely sure himself. But then, how could be he – she doubted he’d ever done anything like it before.

She drew a deep breath, trying to orient herself. She knew that Thranduil would never hurt her – that he wouldn’t be doing this if he truly thought it might do her any lasting harm. “Okay,” she said, “hit me.”

The look he gave her was absolutely appalled. “ _What?_ ”

“It’s a figure’v speech. It means ‘let’s get this over with’.”

He still looked disconcerted, but he stepped forward and laid his cool hands on either side of her face. “Be still,” he said. “This might feel peculiar, but it should not hurt.”

 _I hope not_ , she thought, and tried to do as instructed, distracting herself by trying to call up all the Russian she remembered. She had a feeling Sveta was serious about teaching her how to speak it properly – and hell, maybe she could actually learn how to read it. Raisa had tried to teach her, but she’d been utterly hopeless at it. At least Irish, Welsh, and English all had roughly the same alphabet; when confronted with something so totally different, her brain had promptly locked up. It didn’t help that her spelling in the other three languages was abysmal to begin with.

Thranduil was right – quite abruptly her head felt…odd. It wasn’t painful, but it was like nothing she had ever before known: a strange sort of pressure, though not unpleasant. It sent a feeling of warmth through her, soothing her unsettled stomach and loosening the tension in her limbs. In fact, it was making her tingle in rather inappropriate places, and she wondered just what the hell he was doing. She didn’t want to break his concentration to ask, and it wasn’t like she was _complaining._

Her eyes drifted shut, that warmth coiling and solidifying in her core. Now was not the time or place to be having a wank, but it was tempting. A little _too_ tempting. She tried not to squirm in her seat as the sensation grew and strengthened, entirely without physical contact save his hands on her skin.

She moaned before she could help it, and Thranduil’s fingers twitched against her face. “Keep going,” she said. “You’re right – this doesn’t _hurt_ at all.”

“I did not realize you were so very starved, Firieth Dithen,” he snorted. “Nor did I expect _this_ side-effect.”

“I’ll take what I can get. Now keep on.”

“I suppose it is just as well you are enjoying this,” he said dryly. The heat rose yet further, blanking out everyone else’s unwelcome thoughts.

Lorna gave up trying to sit still, and she didn’t need to look at Thranduil to know he was as amused as he dared to be. He could smirk all he liked, provided he didn’t stop doing what he was – _oh_. She wasn’t quite sure just what sound left her throat, but it was probably embarrassing. She didn’t know if there was an actual earthquake or just one in her pants, and she didn’t care. This was everything she’d been trying and failing to give herself for _months_.

When she opened her eyes, she found that Thranduil was indeed smirking. “I believe your people have a saying,” he said, running his hands through her tangled hair. “Was it good for you?”

Lorna thwacked him in the ribs. “Yes, and you know it. Let’s get the twins, some stuff, and get out’v here before the whole bloody village collapses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice, Thranduil. Very nice. At least _somebody_ is enjoying themselves.
> 
> Ty zakonchila? = Are you done yet?  
> Dumaju, da. Nadejus'. = I think so. I hope so.  
> V tjur'me vyuchila. I mnogo let ne razgovarivala. = I learned in prison. I have not spoken it in years.
> 
> Title means “It gets worse” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with hope.


	26. An Éirí Amach na Stoirme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which some things seem inevitable no matter what the universe (God help them all), the villagers settle into the caverns once more (and Lorna gets mercilessly teased), and Miranda gets less and less happy (and has an idea that could be either wonderful or terrible).

Seated in the darkness of his living-room, Raoul von Ratched watched the news from Ireland with avid interest.

In all his unnaturally long life, he had met only four others such as himself, and one of them had been his mother. He knew that there _were_ more, some band that had thus far eluded him and all his efforts to find them, but he never would have dreamt magic would show itself so openly, let alone so violently.

He needed to get to Ireland. Now.

The borders had been sealed almost immediately, but a little well-placed telepathy would take care of that. Likewise retaining his current job, though he could more than afford to simply walk away from it – and possibly would, depending on what he found there.

He watched the chaos on the TV screen, a gin and tonic on the end table to his right. Much though he detested chaos in his own life, watching it happen to other people was often quite amusing.

Just now, a pretty, dark-haired, desperate reporter stood at a ferry dock in Dublin, her words nearly drowned out by the clamor of a massive crowd that, quite naturally, wanted off the island. The clouds above her were nearly black as night, occasionally veined silver with lightning, the Irish Sea whipped into such a churning froth that no sane captain would risk it, even in something so large as a ferry.

“—authorities are urging everyone to stay inside—”

Von Ratched arched an eyebrow. That was patent nonsense; staying inside a building not constructed to withstand earthquakes might well be suicide.

He flipped to another channel, and found that those who were slightly wiser were trying to flee the city, though to no avail. What motorways had not been damaged by the earthquakes were bumper-to-bumper, with many cars abandoned on the shoulder as their occupants set off on foot. Where they thought they would _go_ , he didn’t know, but he was unsurprised they tried anyway; for many, inaction was not an option, even if action proved fruitless.

And fruitless, he was sure, this would prove. No nation on Earth was truly equipped to handle disaster on so large a scale, an while large storms were not uncommon to parts of Ireland, earthquakes of any noticeable size most definitely were not.

He doubted anyone would be truly prepared for a storm of this magnitude – not unless they lived somewhere accustomed to monsoons or hurricanes, and even then, the response to such things was often inadequate. If this kept on as it was – and he suspected it would, as even he could think of no way to halt it – there might not be an Ireland left for much longer.

Yes, he would leave tomorrow. If nothing else, he could watch firsthand a nation fall apart – but perhaps it need not come to that. Perhaps there was something he _could_ do – and if so, it was always nice to have a government in his debt.

America had certainly always let him do as he wished, though there were few now living who remember why. Something new this time, something involving his own kind.

An Institute, perhaps.

\--

By the time night fell, Mairead was happy to collapse onto her borrowed bed.

They’d been busy all day, hauling everything from the house that could be carried – everything she didn’t want to lose if the house collapsed in another earthquake.

At lest they didn’t need the furniture – not that she would have been willing to lug the sofa two miles through the forest anyway. The books, dishes, and heirlooms were another story, and they had crates upon crates of both. Likewise clothes, and toys, and far too many collectibles to name.

And that was quite apart from Gran’s things. The old woman had insisted on bringing damn near every dish she owned, as well as her throw-rugs and china hutch. Mairead’s back was going to ache for weeks.

She flopped on the bed, gazing up at the woven branches that made up the canopy. This flat, or whatever the Elves called it, was one of the most luxurious things she’d ever seen, and looked as though it had only been vacated yesterday. The stone of the walls had been carved like trees, the branches inlaid with silver. She’d put the velvet spread Lord Thranduil had given her on the bed; the fabric practically shone in the lamplight. Not having any windows was a bit odd, but the rooms were large enough that she didn’t mind, and the lamplight was more pleasant than any lightbulb could be. It was worlds away from some survival bunker, yet far more effective.

However, she found that she was such a creature of habit that her instinct wanted to check the news on the internet. How disgusting was it, that she’d become so reliant on technology? She hadn’t even had television until she was five, yet look at her now. Look at all of them, for she knew she couldn’t be alone. She doubted that any but the very old wouldn’t go through some manner of tech withdrawal, because even Lorna had grown rather addicted to YouTube. They were all used to the world seeming a much larger place, to having information at their fingertips – it was rather sickening, really, how dependent they all were.

Of more practical concern was the lack of electricity. Gran knew how to cook over a fire, but she might well be the only one who did. How had the Elves bathed, without water-heaters? This suite had a cold-water tap and some sort of gravity-fed toilet, but no tub nor shower. She’d have nightmare visions of sponge-bathing by the fire, if she wasn’t quite sure Lord Thranduil wouldn’t put up with anything like that. There were baths _somewhere_ in this place – she just had to find them.

Fortunately, the kids were too excited yet for the shock of their change in situation to really affect them. They too had a pair of appallingly posh rooms, and at least they had most of their stuff to ease their transition once the novelty wore off. Sword-fighting lessons, God help her heart, would likely help.

They were all safe down here. She just had to keep reminding herself of that. Whatever was going on topside would have a hell of a time finding its way in here, unless they let it.

\--

Exhausted though Lorna was, she was also starving, so she headed to the kitchen to slap some sandwiches together.

Half the village had probably had the same thing in mind, for they’d taken over one of the long counters, and had a bit of an assembly line going. The room was very warm thanks to a blazing fire, bright with lantern-light, and she felt safer than she had in her entire life.

She was fortunate, too, in that all of her family was here. A number of the villagers had numerous relatives who had moved away from Lasgaelen over the years, and who couldn’t now get here even if they could be got hold of. The mobile networks were still down, and God only knew how long they’d _stay_ down.

Those that were missing people were, naturally, more subdued, and looked as though Sveta had been at work on them, but at least they ate when food was handed to them. Doc Barry sat on a counter nearby, watching them with open puzzlement and concern, picking at something Lorna couldn’t see. She looked high as a kite.

“That you’re down here tells me Lord Thranduil’s whatever worked,” Nuala said, shoving a plate with a pastrami sandwich into Lorna’s hands. “Did something else, too, by the sound’v it.”

“Sound – oh, bloody hell,” Lorna groaned. “Heard that, did you?”

“Most’v the clinic heard that,” Nuala laughed. “Good with his hands, is he?”

Lorna kicked her. “Hush, you. That was an unforeseen side-effect. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

“I just bet you aren’t,” Molly said, openly leering as she stepped up beside her sister. “You’d best not be making any more babies down here.” 

Lorna kicked her, too. “Hadn’t planned on it. The incision’s healed, but everything down south is still a bit tender.” No matter how damn horny she was and remained, even if that had taken a bit of the edge off.

Molly arched a dark, heavy eyebrow. “All right, Lorna, level with us: does his equipment match his height?”

Lorna burst out laughing, and of course choked on a bite of sandwich. Nuala thumped her on the back a few times, but it took a minute for her to cough up the bit of pickle that had lodged in her throat.

“Yes,” she coughed, wiping her runny eyes. “Yes it does, and can you not ask me things like that when I’ve got food in my mouth?”

“It’s not as fun that way,” Molly said, her freckled face breaking into a grin. “Not gonna lie, I’d wondered how that could even work, given that you’re so small and he’s so…not.”

“It took a bit’v creativity,” Lorna said blandly, still coughing a little.

“And you’ve really not, since?” Nuala asked.

“Well, we couldn’t, could we? First I was up the yard and sick, then I’d had a C-section.” Lorna wasn’t going to go into her more personal reasons. They were between her and Thranduil. “Though I dare you to ask him about his ‘equipment’. I want to see if he’s actually capable’v blushing.” She highly doubted it, but it was worth a shot.

Molly shivered. “Not hardly. I wouldn’t dare.”

“Nor would I,” Nuala said, sipping a can of lager. “I figured out it was him that was making you so sick, and I thought he’d break my neck when I told him to get out.”

“He wouldn’t,” Lorna said. “Not really. He’d not harm his own people.” Of that she was sure, though she wouldn’t put it past him to murder anyone he thought was a true threat. All who had come here so far were physically harmless, their danger laying in what they saw and who they might tell it to. Someone with a knife or a gun, on the other hand…granted, in that case, she’d hardly blame him. And honestly, if somebody came after her children, she couldn’t honestly say she might not kill that person herself. She’d rather break someone’s legs than their neck, but she couldn’t swear that she wouldn’t, if it came down to it.

 _That_ , however, was not a thought to dwell on right now. “We’re safe,” she said, when Nuala looked dubious. “It’s anyone who tries to get in here that’s got to worry.”

“Are you really sure?” Molly asked.

“Yes,” Lorna said, and meant it. “He wouldn’t’ve taken you on if he wasn’t serious about keeping you safe. I know he can be a bit weird, but he _does_ care.”

“I believe you, but he’s so bloody intimidating when he wants to be,” Nuala said.

“He’s six thousand years old and six and a half feet tall,” Lorna said. “He has to make an effort _not_ to be intimidating. Christ, when I first met him I just about pissed myself. Wouldn’t _that_ have been a mood-killer.”

Molly snorted into her lager, and Lorna considered herself avenged.

\--

It took less time than Thranduil had expected to get everyone settled, and then he went to join Lorna, who was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, curled in a ball of blankets and hair.

He himself was still wide awake, all but possessed by the magic surging through the earth, waiting for Miranda. He would sense anyone breaching the barrier of his enchantment, and he would have to lower it for her to actually see where she truly was.

Oh, how he wished there were other Eldar here to witness this. Even Galadriel would be impressed, and likely a little worried. Something this wild and untamed was, so far as he knew, unprecedented. 

He sat on the sofa before the fire, a sleeping twin on either side of him and a glass of wine in his hand, staring into the dancing flames. Would this register in Aman? Would it tempt some of his kind to return? Thranduil had a hazy idea that they were not allowed to, but he was not certain of it.

Once, he had had little use for Galadriel, for Elrond, but especially for Círdan, who had given the ring that ought to have been his to _Mithrandir_. They had never said so, but he knew they thought him cursed by the dragonfire.

Now, though, he might welcome them, and he was fairly sure Miranda’s people would as well. His own people would be perturbed at first, but they’d grown used to him. Surely they could grow used to others.

And, quite honestly, he rather wanted to show them off. Yes, they were Edain, profane and crude, but they were also brave and loyal and adaptable to a degree he still found surprising. The sons of Elrond in particular would _adore_ them.

Legolas would have, too, but Legolas was lost to him. Those who were reborn in Valinor had to stay there – assuming Legolas chose to be reborn at all. Thranduil would only see him if he too died, and he had no intention at all of doing _that_.

Saoirse burbled beside him, and he stroked her fuzzy head. Legolas had always wanted a sibling, but Anameleth had died before they could give him one. Thranduil could imagine the twins trailing after him all too easily, eager to learn all he could teach them. Tauriel had done so, but the difference in their stations had necessitated a certain distance that Thranduil had not, at that point, been willing to overcome. Had anyone told him then that he would willingly become monarch to a motley assortment of Edain, he would have thought them mad.

He raised his head, feeling the shift in his enchantment. Miranda was finally here, and likely in no good mood.

\--

Miranda was, in fact, in quite a terrible mood. She and Julifer had pulled some frankly illegal moves to get here, but the police hadn’t had any time to spare to pull them over.

At least there was still not rain, though the wind howled, and they had to off-road it a few times to get around pavement too heaved and cracked to ride on. She doubted there was a working power station in all of Ireland, for when night fell, it was utterly dark.

When they finally reached where she knew Lasgaelen to be, she was grudgingly impressed by Lord Thranduil’s enchantment. There was no sign at all that a village had ever been there – and when she crossed the line of it, there still wasn’t. She could feel the pavement beneath her motorcycle, and she could hear the echo of its engines off the buildings, but she saw nothing save a field of melting snow lit only by the glow of her headlight.

Creepy. Effective, but creepy. It would be all too easy to run into a power-pole, so she stayed put; she was certain Lord Thranduil would know they’d arrived. 

“Let’s wait here,” she said, killing the engine. “I’d rather not crash, and he’ll know we’re here.” At least the wind was warm, even if it smelled so metallic she could practically taste it.

They had to wait a good quarter of an hour before their host turned up, during which time she went from impressed to, unsurprisingly, paranoid. None of the Gifted could do this – a telepath could theoretically manipulate the minds of many people at once, making them see whatever he or she wanted them to see, but it couldn’t be sustained, or tied to a single location. Magic – their magic – didn’t work that way. What _else_ could this Elf do?

The DMA had so few records of Elves, and what they did have were fragmentary. She’d be relying solely on Lord Thranduil for information about them, but while he seemed a decent enough guy, Miranda trusted approximately no one. She wasn’t willing to take his word alone, but she had no choice.

The wind stirred in her hair, tingling on her skin. This was going to turn into a clusterfuck even if things didn’t get any worse. She absolutely would not expose the DMA to the outside world, which was going to make finding and relocating all these poor bastards really hard. There were people in the DMA who could train them to control their gifts, but they had to be got there first, and Ireland only had one Door.

The town around her entered her vision quite abruptly – and with it, Lord Thranduil. Miranda wasn’t the sort to be intimidated, but he was a daunting figure, so pale and almost radiant in the darkness. His eyes, so chill and remote the first time she’d seen him, were as alive as the storm around them.

“I’d tell you that you have some explaining to do, if I thought you could actually do it,” she said. 

“Alas,” he said, sounding anything but repentant, “I cannot. If you would follow me, I might at least feed you.”

Miranda eyed him suspiciously. He really was in _far_ too good a mood. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“‘Enjoy’ is not the right word,” he said. “I take no pleasure in what is happening to this island, but I feel things in this magic that you, being mortal, simply cannot. It has reminded me of many things that have long been lost.”

“Right,” she said flatly, swinging her leg over the bike. She followed him, and Julifer followed her, stumbling and cursing in the dark. The intermittent jags of lighting only made it worse, leaving her flash-blind.

Miranda was and always had been an almost appallingly pragmatic person. She’d given no thought to magic as anything other than what she knew of it. She knew what the rules of the myriad Gifts were, what they did and didn’t do, and then Lord Thranduil had to go and throw her – and the DMA – into a bloody loop. He was possibly the one surprise she didn’t have a contingency plan for, and she still didn’t know enough about him to make one.

His forest unsettled her, too. She’d done a lot of camping, but that was in Australia; temperate forests were still a novelty, and this one even more so. There was so much magic in here she could practically taste it, contained as it was not outside.

“I don’t know what you did,” she said, unable to bear the silence, “or what you did mixed with, but we can’t control it on our end. I want you to come to the DMA, if we can actually get you there, to see if you can shore up the Trees with your own magic.”

“Trees?” he asked, not turning around.

“You’ll see when you get there. There’s no explaining them.” There really wasn’t, either, even for someone more eloquent than Miranda. They had to be seen.

“Only if I can also bring my wife and my children.”

 _That_ was going to be difficult. How the hell were they to transport two babies to the Door? She had a feeling they were going to have to find a way, because she doubted he would budge on the issue. And really, she couldn’t blame him. “I’ll see what we can do,” she said, fighting a sigh.

They lapsed into silence for the rest of the walk, until he opened the door to his halls, and they stepped into another world.

A thought occurred to Miranda, as her eyes took in these beautiful caverns. Once, she would have considered it an impossible thought, but much had occurred recently that she would have thought impossible.

If Lord Thranduil could cast such strange enchantments, maybe he could make a Door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, they’re looking at a possible Von Ratched issue, but if they’ve got their own Door, at least it will make his life harder.
> 
> Title means “The Rising of the Storm” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with joy.


	27. Doirse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil and Miranda plot, she wonders just what these sudden gifts will do the bodies of those that have them, and Lorna isn’t at all happy at the thought of him leaving for the DMA.

Thranduil had to admit, he was intrigued by Miranda’s idea. He didn’t think it would _work_ , but he was intrigued nonetheless.

As Lorna was still sound asleep, he brought Miranda and Julifer to his study, gesturing them to sit beside the fire while he poured wine. It was the only room in all the caverns to be somewhat in disarray, the bookshelves haphazard and the vast oak desk littered with parchment and half-used inkwells in various colors. Still, it was warm, and he drew his chair around the desk to sit with them.

“The Doors are stationary,” Miranda said, taking a glass from him. “They always have been, but you can’t tell me this place isn’t partly in its own world.”

“That is not precisely accurate,” he said. “My caverns are a holdover of a world that once was, but are nevertheless still part of what it has become now.”

The woman clearly didn’t believe him, but that was her problem. “Still,” she said, sipping her wine, “I want you to try to make a Door. If we’re going to be coming and going in the future, we can’t keep going through bloody Wicklow.”

“And how,” he asked, “do you expect me to do that?” He had an unfortunate feeling that she thought the magic of the Eldar could do far more than was actually possible.

“Theoretically, everything in the DMA’s dimension touches _somewhere_ on Earth,” Julifer said. “We can find all sorts of places, but we can’t make a Door on our own. It’s not how our magic works. It might not be how yours works, either, but we ought to try. You’ve got a lot of magic in here – maybe enough to punch through.”

“And could I _lock_ this Door?” He did not at all like the thought of anyone having unrestricted access to his halls, ally or not.

“I don’t see why not,” Miranda said. “All the rest are invisible from the outside, but that doesn’t mean yours has to be. See, I’m guessing that it was one of you who built them in the first place, way back when, because we just can’t _do_ that. There’s so much we don’t know about our own history, thanks to the damn Obliteration.”

Thranduil gave her a quizzical look, and she sighed.

“The whole reason we survived the Obliteration was because we sealed ourselves inside for fifty years, until the contagion ran out, right? Well, somewhere in there, somebody decided to wreck our oldest records. The ones we’ve still got to go back about two thousand years or so, but almost everything before that is missing. _Why_ , I don’t know, any more than I know why we have so few records of the Obliteration itself.”

“I suspect _I_ know that,” he said. “You are ancestors did not wish to run the risk of loosing the one who caused it. He is imprisoned now outside this world, for he cannot be killed. 

Both women stared at him. “How the hell do you know _that_?” Julifer asked.

“Because I helped put him there.”

\--

Lorna woke disoriented and alone, but at least she was warm.

She stayed curled up in bed for a few minutes, luxuriating in the softness. She really had come up in the world, hadn’t she? If only Mam could see her now. If only _Da_ could see her – he’d always told her she’d wind up no good, and she _hadn’t_ , even before she’d met Thranduil. She’d had a proper job, which was more than her da had ever been able to boat. She was probably never going to actually be _respectable_ , but hell, she tried.

Eventually she rose, and changed the twins’ diapers and drips. Christ but they’d grown, and it didn’t seem natural that they could sit up already. Molly had brought a stock of baby food, for whenever they could properly eat, but what would they do when it ran out? What had Elf babies eaten, thousands of years ago? Thank God Thranduil knew.

Could she carry both of them down to the dining hall? Maybe, but she probably shouldn’t. She settled for poking up the fire and wrestling with her hair, wondering what she had to do to get hot water. She knew it was possible; she’d taken a few baths in that lovely large tub while she was pregnant. Thranduil could get it done.

She wondered what he had done to block off her…power. Ability. Whatever the hell you wanted to call it. The fact that she had one at all was a bit terrifying, even if she didn’t know how to use it. Even if she didn’t _want_ to use it. Lorna never would have given a thought to any magic but Thranduil’s if it hadn’t come by and poked her in the brain. Just what else was out there that she didn’t know about? What was there that _he_ didn’t? The world was proving to be a much stranger place than she’d ever imagined.

Sod it all. She was hungry, and her incision was healed well enough. Surely hauling the twins wouldn’t be that hard. She changed into a sweatshirt, but her pyjama trousers were too warm and comfortable to swap for jeans, and it wasn’t as if anybody was likely to even notice, let alone care. Her feet she stuffed into a pair of fuzzy purple slippers, and then came the slightly complex problem of loading the twins and their drips. They were already almost too big for the carriers; thank God they were good at sitting still, or she’d fear they’d try to roll out.

Lifting them was easy enough, but it only took five minutes of walking for her to realize just how out-of-shape she really was. Christ, it was disgraceful; her upper body strength was fine, but everything from her abdomen on down was _not_ happy. Nuala had to clear her for proper exercise soon.

Fortunately, Thranduil found her before she could make too much of a fool of herself. He took the twins, and gave her a thorough scolding.

“I was hungry,” she protested, leading him down toward the kitchen, “and I couldn’t exactly leave them. I’ve got to start stashing food in our room, I suppose.” Funny – there had always been his room and hers, and never the twain had met until now. She wondered if the house would still be standing when the storm was over.

“Yes, you do.” There was something a little hilarious in watching Thranduil the tall and gorgeous lugging along two baby carriers, each with a burbling twin who grabbed at his hands. “Miranda and Julifer arrived while you were asleep. They want to speak to all the Gifted in the village.” He smirked at her. “Did I or did I not tell you that there was more to you, and I did not yet know what?”

Lorna stuck her tongue out at him. “How many’v us are there?”

“You, healer Barry, Siobhan, and Mick. So far. Miranda has no way of knowing whether or not that number will increase.”

God, _there_ was a scary thought. Poor Sveta couldn’t keep drugging a load of people all the time.

“She wants me to go to the home of her people, but I said I would not go without you and the twins,” he added.

“Would it be safe taking them?” Lorna asked. She didn’t at all like the thought of dragging them off into the unknown. They were safer in here than they were anywhere else in the entire world.

Thranduil slowed. “I am not certain,” he admitted. “They likely would have told me if it was not, but I fear to part from them.”

She could understand, for it worried her, too, but she was more afraid to take them from the one place she _knew_ they were safe. She said as much, and he sighed.

“I suspect you are right” he said, “yet I hesitate nonetheless. For now I will refuse, until we know whether or not we can create a Door into their realm.”

Lorna halted. “A _what_?”

“It is a long story. Come, Firieth Dithen. You must eat first, lest you try to strangle one or both of them.”

\--

The dining-hall held a smattering of people, but they and Miranda largely ignored one another. 

Everything in here, right down to the long tables, was so big that she wondered if Lord Thranduil’s height was typical for Elves. The high table, where he presumably sat, was framed by the massive roots of a living tree, with a small, gently trickling waterfall behind it.

Would the DMA benefit from a redecoration? The shrinks always said green was a restful color, and maybe doing up one of the cafeterias like this would help some of the depressives. The downside of the DMA was that you couldn’t go outside of the DMA was that you couldn’t go outside without actually going to Earth, and in the last thirty years that had become more dangerous. Some of the Doors couldn’t even be used anymore, because they were too close to populated areas. The population of normal people had exploded in the last hundred years, and she’d wondered more than once why the Gifted hadn’t kept pace. Greater numbers would have been nice, but this was _not_ what she meant.

She was still rather stunned by what Lord Thranduil had told her. It made sense, given how old he was, and she wanted to pump him for as much information on the Obliteration as she could. That they knew so little had always maddened her; all they had were twelve journals written by the dying, which, since they were written by people delirious with fever, didn’t help much.

But Lord Thranduil had been there, had seen it – and, most importantly, knew what had been done with the person who caused it. Which was a hell of a lot more than they knew.

When he and his tiny wife joined her, she looked at them appraisingly. It was perhaps no great wonder that the woman – Lorna – had developed a gift, considering her grandmother, but Miranda wondered about the others. According to Sveta, none of them were related, nor had there been anything especially unusual about them medically. They were healthy, _normal_ people – except now they weren’t. And God knew what toll their sudden gifts would take on their bodies. They’d need a medical workup, once anyone could get them to consent to it.

They did make a rather odd pair – him carrying two baby carriers, her stuffing her face with a jam sandwich. Though that they were partly responsible for this mess was ludicrous.

“How’d you get there through that storm?” Lorna asked around a mouthful of sandwich.

“Slowly,” Miranda said. “It’s mad out there, and we need your husband to come with us and see if he can fix it. Until we can round up everyone causing it, I doubt it’ll stop on its own.”

“Brilliant,” Lorna sighed. “How d’you plan to do that?”

Miranda snorted. “We don’t know yet. I hate plans – they never work anyway.”

“You’ll not get any argument from me there,” Lorna said, with a faint, dry smile. “Are we going to be able to get back out to…wherever the hell you came from?”

Miranda’s eyes flicked to Lord Thranduil. “Yes,” she said. “I have an idea. Lord Thranduil, I want to take you with us. Once we’re in the DMA, we can figure out just where in it touches this part of Earth, and you can see about making a Door.” 

“I still fail to understand how you intend for me to actually accomplish that,” Thranduil said, a bit sourly, setting the twins on one of the tables. 

“Not hard, in theory,” Miranda said. “I take you with me, and you try to find your wife through the barrier.”

“The barrier being that which stands between Earth and your dimension,” Thranduil said, arching an eyebrow. “No, that does not sound hard at all. Breaching the bounds of the universe is entirely simple.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Miranda said, glowering at him. “We’re good at figuring things out. It’s why we’ve been around so long. Now, as much as I don’t _want_ to go back out into that mess, we ought to head to the DMA as soon as we can, while we still have a chance. I don’t want to have to walk all the way to damn Wicklow.”

Her tone made Lorna burst out laughing before she could help it. “Sorry,” she said, still giggling. “I wouldn’t want to, either.”

“If this works, it won’t be so bad. We’ve got to get more people out here, to round up all the new Gifted while we can, before somebody else does.”

“Who else?” Thranduil asked.

“Anybody but us. Nobody in the normal world would have good intentions toward you,” Miranda said grimly.

Lorna had seen enough _X-Men_ films to easily believe _that_. “Well, if you’ve got to steal this one, at least let me say a proper good-bye first,” she said, tugging Thranduil’s hand.

He arched an eyebrow. “ _How_ proper?”

“As proper as you’re likely to get.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “Don’t take too long.”

Lorna just grinned, and dragged her amused husband into an empty alcove. “Find us again quick,” she said. “And take your mobile – I want pictures.” Before he could say anything, she practically climbed the length of his body and kissed him, sound and hard, grinning when he opened his mouth to her, his arms wrapping around her. “Get back and we’ll do more’v that,” she said, and kissed him again.

“As you wish, Firieth Dithen,” he said. “I find myself distressingly unable to disobey you.”

Oh, the places she could go with _that_ , but not just yet. “I’ll be remembering that,” she said, hopping back down to the floor. Lorna herself was strangely reluctant to let him go, absurd though it was – it wasn’t as though he couldn’t take care of himself, and Miranda and Julifer knew how to navigate the mayhem in the modern world.

“You come back to us,” she said, more seriously. “If you don’t, I’ll find my own way into that DMA and cart you off home.”

“Do not fear for me,” he said, kissing her forehead.

“I don’t,” she sighed, “and I do. God only knows what’s really going on out there. Try not to kill anyone if you don’t have to.” She wasn’t joking, either.

His pale eyes went grave. “I will not, if I can avoid it. Do not set foot outside that door while I am away.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” she said dryly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Everybody who needs to be in here is in here. But if it doesn’t work, if you can’t make your Door, you shift your arse home. I mean it. And I mean it about the pictures, too.”

He gave her one of his familiar smirks. “I am sure you are. I will see what might be done. I do not know how long I will be away, but I will try to return soon.”

Lorna devoutly hoped he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miranda and Julifer don’t quite know what they’ve got themselves into, but neither does Thranduil. Poor bastards. All of them.
> 
> As you might have noticed, I and my half-assed Photoshop skills have created a cover for this fic. Tell me Thranduil’s expression isn’t completely perfect.
> 
> Title means ‘Doors’ in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with light and hope and warm fuzzies. Everyone likes warm fuzzies.


	28. Cumhacht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil hates motorcycles and goes to the DMA, (which he is not ready for, and which will not be ready for him), Ireland continues to go to hell, and things wind up a bit awkward.
> 
> I had so much fun with this chapter, especially the ending. It’s also a bit on the long side, but there you are.

Thranduil paused long enough to put on the clothes Mairead had given him for Christmas, so that he would not stand out any more than he absolutely had to, and off they went.

He had expected the outside to be bad, but he had not expected this.

In the brief time they had all stayed underground, the storm had somehow grown much worse. Had he been mortal, the wind might have stolen his breath; all around him, his forest creaked and groaned under what felt very like the storms that had all but destroyed the Avari on the coast of another continent. Such a thing was not natural in such deeper, colder water, and still there was no rain.

How in Eru’s name could the Edain outside his forest cope with such a maelstrom? The plain truth was that they could not. Eru know how many would die before this was finally over.

And it was partially his fault.

It was a thought he forced out of his mind, or tried to as they walked through the darkness, both women carrying electric torches. The unfamiliar feel of his clothing helped; both fabrics were unknown to him, the trousers stiff. He also disliked having to stuff his hair up under his hat, but his height was conspicuous enough as it was. Between him, Miranda, and the purple-haired Julifer, they certainly made an _odd_ little trio. The snow, by now, had turned into slush, with a few bare patches here and there.

When they reached the strange conveyances that had borne them to the village, he halted. “No,” he said flatly. He’d seen motorcycles on television, and he utterly refused to ride one, even as a passenger.

Julifer rolled her eyes, shoving her hair out of her face. “They’re the only way we can get back to Wicklow, with the roads all screwed-up.”

“No,” he said again, arching an eyebrow. “I am likely too heavy anyway.”

“Bullshit,” Miranda said, eying him. “At your height you’re what, two hundred pounds?”

He did a little math in his head. “Closer to three hundred. Elves are heavier than Edain – it is why we are so much stronger.”

Miranda swore, nearly as creatively as Lorna, and he didn’t wonder why. Even Julifer, who was considerably shorter than her and Thranduil, probably weighed around a hundred and thirty; if he rode with her, it would still likely tax the motorcycle, assuming it would move at all. For all he knew, the tires would burst.

“Well, this is gonna suck,” Julifer sighed.

“Can you even carry me on that?” he asked, hoping the answer was no.

“I can, but it’s not gonna be any fun at all to drive.”

“They why can we not take a car?” He wasn’t fond of _those_ , either, but that was partly because Mairead’s driving was terrifying. At least it had four wheels, and could not, in theory, tip over.

“Because of the roads,” she said, as patiently as she was probably able. “We might not even be able to get the bikes all the way back.”

“Oh, yes we can,” Miranda said, kickstarting hers. The roar of the engine overrode the wind, every bit as deep and wild, the headlamp cutting a swath through the darkness. “I’m not leaving them to scavengers. If this hasn’t turned into _Road Warrior: The Irish Edition_ by the end of the week, I’ll be very surprised.”

That statement was utterly mystifying, and also irrelevant. As much as Thranduil absolutely did not want to get onto one of those _things_ , there was likely little choice. He could hardly allow Miranda and Julifer to think him afraid of the blasted machines – what he felt was not strong enough for fear. It was merely an apprehension of the unknown.

If he kept telling himself that, he might actually believe it.

There did not, however, appear to be anything for it. Though he had a fundamental dislike of touching anyone who wasn’t Lorna or his children, he managed to ride behind Julifer, who seemed extremely tense herself. Whether it was because she had a passenger, because _he_ was her passenger, or because she feared what the added weight would do, he didn’t know, but it didn’t matter.

 _You are King of the Woodland Realm_ , he told himself. _You have faced dragons. There is no need to fear a machine._

He’d almost had himself believing it, until the motorcycle actually moved. Then he had to consciously avoid crushing Julifer’s ribs.

Thranduil had thought cars were bad, but this was _so much worse_ , and they weren’t even going very fast. At least a car was an enclosed space, with metal and glass between him and the unforgiving pavement. At any real speed, crashing this thing might injure even him.

 _Dragons_ , he reminded himself, but his resolve nearly faltered when they rode out to the highway, picking up speed at an alarming rate. The blasting wind was quite cold now, scouring over his face, and he could feel the motorcycle shuddering as Julifer fought for control. He was dimly aware of her swearing, a litany of curses that would have done Lorna proud. He was glad she had stayed at home – and not only because he knew she’d pity him if she hadn’t. He was already so far out of his element it was ridiculous.

Lightning flashed overhead, the world for a moment rendered bright as day. He wondered what would happen if it temporarily blinded the two Edain, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

He tried to focus on the magic, and ignore the constant possibility of crashing and splitting his head open like a melon. It was so strong he could taste it, metallic and sweet in equal measure, and so very, very alive. It was in the air all around him, dancing along his skin like lightning.

He focused, and it worked, right up until they reached a massive fissure in the highway. The women rode right off the edge to get around it, through stones and knee-high weeds that tugged at his clothes. The motorcycle jerked, and Julifer cursed again, her words almost borne away by the wind and roaring engines.

When they reached the main motorway, there were cars everywhere – headlights aglow, all at a standstill, many abandoned. A monstrous cloud of black smoke rose to the east, darker than the thunderheads, so heavy the wind failed to disperse it. There was an alien, ugly scent to it; whatever was burning, it was not merely wood. All over there were Edain on foot, men and women and children, all carrying boxes and bags, their eyes wide and wild. One man was lugging along a birdcage full of songbirds, all chirping like mad; a little girl was clinging to the leash of a dog far larger than her, which was all by dragging her along.

There was nothing he or anyone else could do for them – not right now. At least out here there was nothing that could fall on them

The ground trembled, dragging the motorcycle with it in a drunken line. Julifer fought for control, and spectacularly lost, spilling it and them onto the dirt. Thranduil managed to dismount and roll away, but she was not so lucky – she went sprawling onto the ground, swearing all the while.

The earth still shivered, and Miranda brought her motorcycle to a halt. She dismounted it, hurrying over the check on Julifer, and Thranduil winced at the screams that split the air. When he turned, he found the Edain fleeing, as though they thought they could somehow outrun the earthquake. All they managed to do was run into the cars and one another.

He wrenched Julifer’s motorcycle upright again, hating the thing more than ever, but they had no time to walk, even if the two of them could put up with his pace. On they went again, and off into the storm, and he fervently cursed himself for being unwilling to just move away for an Edain generation. They could have gone to the ruin of Doriath, and made part of it habitable again – his family, and any of the villagers who chose to accompany them. It would not have been ideal, no, but it would also not involve destroying what had once been his kingdom.

He had been the worst kind of fool, and Eire was paying for it. Perhaps this would have happened anyway – perhaps whatever other power had contributed to this magical disaster would have managed it without his aid – but at least it wouldn’t be his fault.

\--

For someone so clearly out of his depth, Lord Thranduil was handling this remarkably well. Miranda was damn glad, because it was annoying enough even without him freaking out.

As soon as they reached the DMA, she was sending out everybody they had who would be capable of dealing with this. Yeah, they risked exposure, but they couldn’t just hide and leave all these poor fuckers to die. There was such chaos that she doubted many normals would notice their involvement anyway.

She kicked her motorcycle into high gear, trusting Julifer to follow. Lord Thranduil, try though he seemed to be doing, was a shit passenger – he didn’t seem to have any instinct about leaning, instead sitting ramrod straight and likely throwing off Julifer’s balance.

They tore through the night, dodging and weaving through the cars where they could, taking to the shoulder when they couldn’t. Horrible as this was, it made Miranda feel _alive_ in a way few things had ever managed. As a teenager she’d been an adrenaline junkie, and this was every bit as dangerous as every other stupid thing she’d ever done. The wind tugged at her ponytail, rushing in her ears, the rumble of the engine a powerful counterpoint to the boom of the thunder. Had she been on her own, she might well have tried to jump some of the cars, but Julifer would have slaughtered her later even without the hindrance of a passenger. Her aide was an even-tempered woman, right up until she wasn’t. 

Somewhere near Wicklow, somewhere far too near, something must have exploded – a deep, reverberating boom split the air, the ground shuddering with the impact. A massive fireball bloomed into the sky to her left, washing the world red and orange, searing itself into her vision. The motorcycle fought her, and she fought back, blinking hard. What in the actual fuck that _that_ been? Christ, she needed to do some research on Ireland, and find out just what potential geographical disasters were where.

They wound around Wicklow, headed for the fields, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she found nothing had gone wrong near the Door. She was willing to send out aid to Ireland, but that didn’t mean she wanted everyone and their dog to know where the only Door into the country lay. Yeah, with any luck Lord Thranduil could make another, but Lasgaelen was so far out of the way it would be even more inconvenient than this one – and there was every chance he’d be unwilling to drag a load of strangers through his caverns to get them to the DMA. Miranda wouldn’t blame him if he was; he’d lasted so long because his home was an utter secret.

The Doors were invisible from the outside, but everyone who lived and worked in the DMA knew where they were – which was a damn good thing, because in this dimension they were also intangible unless you knew how to phase half a step through and touch it. She pulled a tiny black box from her pocket, pressing the side, and heard the deep _click_ as the signal hit home. 

The outer Door was one of three barriers; when they passed through it, there was a small room with a second, forged of titanium, manned by two guards with assault rifles and an assortment of grenades. They knew her on sight, but they retina-scanned her anyway. So far as anyone knew, there weren’t any actual shape-shifters anywhere, but they’d rather not take the chance.

She kicked her motorcycle into neutral, already missing the wind, while Julifer pulled up beside her. A glance at Lord Thranduil told her nothing; he could do ‘neutral’ like no one else she had ever seen in her life. Seeing him in civilian clothing was just _weird_ , because it didn’t really make him seem any less alien. It was no wonder he’d been found out when he went to the hospital with Lorna; the only wonder was that he’d got away with it as long as he had.

“You were having fun out there, weren’t you?” one of the guards asked, giving her a faint grin. He was too damn young to be on this job, at this Door; if he was any more than twenty, she’d eat her own boot. “Who is, uh, this?”

“Lord Thranduil,” Miranda said. “Don’t ask – you’ll be told later. Take care of the bikes.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

Miranda left him to it, passing through the second door and then the third, keeping half an eye on Lord Thranduil – neutral he might be, but she could see a faint tinge of curiosity enter his pale eyes. They traveled over the corridor the trio entered, taking in the deep blue carpet, the walls plastered with thousands of years’ worth of signs and notices, layered over one another like an odd, disjointed wallpaper. Miranda hated fluorescent lights, so all the bulbs that lined the ceiling were incandescent, softening the harshness a bit.

“How large is this place?” he asked, following her.

“About the size of Manhattan,” she said, forgetting for a moment that that would mean nothing to him. “Big,” she clarified. “Thirty-three square miles or so. Unfortunately, we’ve got a ways to go, so you get to do a bit more driving again.”

“As long as it is not on one of those _things_ ,” he said, infusing the last word with a derision beyond description.

“You’d better hope this Door works,” she retorted, “or you’ll be riding one of those _things_ back home.”

If he’d been human, she was pretty sure he would have shuddered.

\--

Yet again, Thranduil wished he had brought Lorna. This place was a curiosity to him, but she would be able to properly appreciate it.

In spite of the films he had watched, his knowledge of Edain facilities was limited. He was, however, certain that few of them looked like this – this odd mix of the bland and the bizarre.

The corridor was empty for a good half-mile, with several metal slots Julifer explained were yet more barriers, put in place in the unlikely event someone or something managed to get past the first three.

“Sharley’s idea,” she said. “She’s almost as paranoid as Miranda.”

“Who _is_ Sharley?” he asked.

“A more accurate question is _what_ is Sharley,” Miranda said. “She’s popped in from time to time over the last forty-odd years, and never looks any older. She’s not what you are, but she’s not human, either. She’ll give advice, and then pop back out.”

“You say ‘pop’ – what does that mean?”

“Oh, she can’t teleport. She just turns up at one of the Doors and talks her way in. She’s…well, she’s hard to ignore,” Miranda said.

“By which Miranda means she’s creepy as fuck,” Julifer said. “She doesn’t breathe. If it wasn’t for the fact that she’s not, you know, _rotting_ , I’d say she was some kind of zombie.”

Now that was intriguing. Thranduil probably shouldn’t hope that he would one day have cause to meet her, but he couldn’t help it.

The corridor eventually connected with an actual street, paved like any road on Earth, and just as thronged with people. There were no proper cars; rather, they moved about on foot or bicycles, or in strange, small things that looked a bit like outside vehicles, but did not seem to go nearly so fast, nor did they emit any of the toxic fumes he hated so much.

The hall around them was vast – not so much so as his own, but large enough, bathed in a soft golden glow strangely close to sunlight. Actual shops lined the street, very like those in Lasgaelen; it was an entire village within the DMA, seemingly self-contained.

How in Eru’s name had they managed it? Surely they would have had to bring absolutely all of this in from the outside world, then build it, wire it, and somehow produce the electricity to run it. Much as he hated to admit it, the Eldar would not – or could not – have done it themselves.

“You probably don’t know how to ride a bike, do you?” Julifer asked, breaking his concentration.

“No,” he said, a touch sourly. Lorna had tried to talk him into it, and he’d flatly refused to make such a fool of himself.

“Didn’t think so,” she sighed. “There ought to be a spare buggy somewhere around here.”

The ‘buggies’, he discovered, were the odd, roofless vehicles. He wasn’t going to let on how relieved he was to be in something that actually had four wheels. They were, naturally, too small for him; he wound up sitting on the back of the thing, his legs stretched out over the seat, ignoring the curious stares of the passers-by. Now that they were out of the wind he pulled off that ridiculous cap; it didn’t matter if the Edain in here saw him for what he was.

They passed through the strange little village, and mercifully, the ‘buggy’ didn’t go anywhere near as fast as an actual car. There were _plants_ in here – narrow fields of grass and wildflowers that flourished beneath the artificial sun, in spite of the winter in the outside world.

Damn it all, he was impressed. He couldn’t help it.

\--

Lord Thranduil was quiet for most of their ride, his ungodly pale eyes taking in everything there was to take in. There was something utterly _wrong_ about seeing him here, in this place so firmly human; he stuck out almost as bad as Sharley, and that was really, _really_ saying something.

Miranda let him look, wondering just what was going on in his head. She wondered if he had been here before, during the Obliteration; if he had, it would have looking nothing remotely like this.

They needed to work out where in here touched his halls on Earth, and for that they needed Monique. Aside from Bridie, she was one of a handful currently alive who could do it. For some reason, truly _useful_ Gifts were outnumbered by those that were effectively useless – there were way too many who could fly, which was both pointless and dangerous, and a number of clairsentients who tended to go insane if not attached at the hip to an empath or an aura-manipulator, for theirs was a Gift without an off-switch. They couldn’t help but see the history of absolutely everything they touched.

Julifer and the other nullifiers were going to have to go back to Ireland, and take the finders with them. The nullifiers couldn’t incapacitate a Gift for long, but hopefully it would be long enough. She couldn’t ask any of the empaths to go out in that – they’d lose their minds. They and the aura-manipulators could deal with the newcomers once they were here.

Christ, Miranda hoped Lord Thranduil could actually do this, because she really didn’t want to deal with him if he couldn’t.

\--

Thranduil hadn’t been gone more than an hour before Lorna regretted staying. She discovered in short order that she didn’t like being left at home _at all_.

How disgusting was that? She hadn’t thought she had it in her to be that co-dependent, but look at her now. If it wasn’t for the twins, she might well have hared off into the storm him. 

It _was_ disgusting, so she opted to explore, letting Nuala fuss over the twins. After about fifteen minutes of wandering she found a smaller cavern filled, somehow, with hot springs. She knew there were some north of Kildare, but she hadn’t expected any here. How many other surprises were hiding here?

There wasn’t any soap, but she didn’t care – she shucked her clothes and hopped right in, hoping the heat of the water would loosen some of her tension. The walls and ceiling of this cavern were flecked with mica, and shone like stars in the lamplight. God, there were dozens of pools in here – how many Elves could have fit at once? She could easily imagine a load of them hanging out in here after a long day.

For once, the thought didn’t fill her with sadness. Yes, they were gone, and probably wouldn’t return, but not all trace of them was lost. Thranduil remembered, and now Lorna and all the villagers did, too. She’d heard somewhere that the dead were only truly dead when their names were forgotten – she’d ask Thranduil about them, whenever he got home. 

Whenever he got home. How long would that take? What if he couldn’t make a Door?

“Christ, I’m awful,” she sighed. She’d always laughed at women who couldn’t function when their man was away, and now she’d gone and become one. Blow that. She was relaxing, and then she was going to explore some more, and not think about it. She was Lorna Donovan, goddammit, not some twit who wrung her hands when her husband was gone. Thranduil would be home when he was home. There was nothing she could do to expedite it, so she wasn’t going to worry. 

She did have one worry, though: she hadn’t thought to check and see if there were any towels before she just jumped on into the water. It was a good thing she’d brought all her clothes when they moved, because these were probably going to get soaked.

\--

Monique, Thranduil found, was a tall woman of indeterminate age, her skin the color of freshly turned earth but her eyes a deep, vivid blue. He had never seen a woman who shaved off all her hair before, but it suited her.

“Lord Thranduil, Monique. Monique, Lord Thranduil,” Miranda said. “She’s the most precise finder we have – if anyone can locate your wife on Earth, it’s her. I’ve given her the Cliff Notes version of what’s going on.”

Thranduil had no idea what that meant, but he assumed it was a good thing. He wished he could say Lorna was easy to find, but on an island crowded with what had to be thousands of Gifted, he could not.

“If she is your wife, I assume you have touched her recently,” Monique said. Her accent was unlike anything he had ever heard, even in all the travels of his youth.

“I have,” he said, wondering what that had to do with anything.

“Give me your hand,” she said, “and think of her. Focus every ounce of your being on the thought.”

Yet more unwanted physical contact. Why in Eru’s name did Edain have to be so _tactile_? Still, he did as instructed, trying not to tense. Think of Lorna he did – not so much of her physical self as her fëa, so brilliant for an Edain, warm and alive and possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Yes, he thought her lovely in a physical sense, even if few others might, but he saw in her what others simply couldn’t. He saw all she could be, all she _should_ have been, had life not been so hard on her.

He thought of her eyes, too deep for a mortal, too _alien_ , even to him. Perhaps she was the distant descendent of some Elf, but perhaps she was something else entirely. Once upon a time this world had held many things neither Edain nor Eldar, until the Obliteration wiped them out. There were any number of things she could be descended from, so many generations removed that it took the eyes of an Elda to see anything different.

Monique smiled. “Follow me,” she said. “You will not, I think, have much difficulty making a Door. The veil between our worlds is much thinner than most realize.”

Follow he did, hoping she was right. He would make _certain_ she was.

\--

It had been a very long time since Miranda was this curious. She trailed after the pair, through the myriad corridors of the DMA, hoping like hell the new Door wouldn’t be somewhere totally inconvenient. They’d built the DMA around the Doors, however many thousands of years ago, and if it landed in the middle of, say, the hospital wing, they were going to have an issue. Not an insurmountable issue, but certainly an annoying one.

Lord Thranduil led them past the hospital wing, however – it was a good three miles before he stopped, and to her unease, he halted in a crowded cafeteria far too close to the cavern that housed the Trees. While it wasn’t the _worst_ place to put a Door, it was pretty damn bad, because the Trees were the only thing in all the DMA she absolutely did not want outsiders knowing about.

Fuck.

But then, she probably shouldn’t be surprised that something like the Trees would touch so closely Lord Thranduil’s halls. Both were half a step removed from their respective realities, no matter what he said, and tapped into a force far older than any of them. 

The three of them stared at one notice-laden wall, heedless of their audience. Lord Thranduil probably had no more idea what he was doing than Miranda did, but his pale profile was so tense he had to be doing _something_. From what little record they had of Elves, their families were everything to them – they’d try to shift the universe for them, and he had to do just that.

So she watched, and she waited, silent and still. She was expecting something grand and showy, but still wasn’t prepared for what she got.

He reached out his right hand, the ring on his forefinger glittering in the light, and laid it on the wall. What happened next was something she _felt_ rather than saw – it was as though all the air had been sucked away in the space of a moment, crushing her lungs, the sheer force of power squeezing at her heart. White light flashed, brief but blinding, searing right into her brain, and something, some raw, elemental, entirely alien force shuddered through her – through her, and the floor, and the walls, strong as any of the earthquakes outside. 

It sent her staggering, the tile cracking beneath her feet, the lights flickering out and plunging the room into darkness. More than one person screamed, though it was overridden by the loudest boom Miranda had ever heard in her life, as though they were standing in the center of the greatest thunder-clap that ever was. It was deafening, disorienting, and nearly enough to drive her to her knees, all her senses temporarily rendered null. The instincts to fight or to flee were at such war that she could do neither – all she managed was to stumble back into one of the tables, sitting before she could fall.

Dear fucking _God_ , just _what_ had she let into her home? What the hell had she given access to the DMA? Oh, she’d known the Elves weren’t anything like human, but not until now had she been given any evidence as to how different – and how powerful – they really were. Never, ever had she seen or imagined such a level of magic so wholly alien to everything she had ever known. She’d thought Lord Thranduil odd and ancient and passed over by time, someone possessed of abilities she couldn’t understand, but she had not at all anticipated _this_.

It was over as soon as it had begun, and left her feeling so queasy she was certain she was going to be sick. When her vision finally reoriented itself, she found she was looking not at a wall, but at a large cavern, the dark walls flecked with tiny points of light, the floor littered with pools of churning, steaming water. Seated in one of them, clothes piled to one side, was Lorna, fortunately shrouded in the wet mass of her hair.

She stared at them, and they at her. “Well,” she said. “This is awkward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Lorna, yes it is. I decided that if I was going to throw Thranduil at the DMA, I was going to have to throw Lorna, too, because I get far too much enjoyment out of them tag-teaming people.
> 
> Chapter title means “Power” in Irish. As ever, your reviews make me do a little happy dance. Which usually scares my cat.


	29. Crainn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story time: ever since I was in my mid-twenties, I’ve gotten intermittent, excruciating tension headaches that can last for days on end. The only cure I’ve ever found is a few good hits off a pipe of weed, which fortunately is legal where I live. Basically, I wrote the first draft of this chapter stoned off my gourd, so I had to go back and re-write most of it once the pot and headache wore off. It wasn’t easy, especially since the headache has been trying its damndest to come back for the last few days. (The last few days of sitting in a dark, quiet room with my cat. Seriously, it’s been so long since I had one of these headaches that I’d forgotten just how horrific they can be.)
> 
> In which Lorna and Thranduil explore the DMA, discover the Trees, and she proposes. In her own Lorna way.

It was a good thing that Lorna had A.) a lot of very long hair, and B.) no sense of shame. She had no compunction about staying put, figuring that, if she was suddenly going to find herself staring at twenty-odd horrified people, she might as well keep enjoying the hot water.

Thranduil’s mouth twitched in a smile, and she had a feeling he would laugh if he wasn’t surrounded by strangers. “Only you, Firieth Dithen,” he said.

“Hey, this isn’t _my_ fault,” she retorted. “I thought the Door was meant to go in the dining-hall.”

“Apparently it decided to go wherever you were,” he said dryly.

“Still not my fault,” she said, scowling at him as he made his way around the pools, no doubt intending to serve as some kind of living shield so she could get dressed without flashing anyone. Dammit. She’d been loving this soak.

She hauled herself half out of the pool, wringing her hair out before struggling into her shirt, which of course stuck unpleasantly to her skin. Her pyjama trousers were every bit as bad. “This place’ll turn into a damn traffic-jam, won’t it?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he said. “This is for our convenience, and our convenience only.”

Lorna had seen enough of Miranda to doubt it would be that easy. She wrung more water out of her hair, already shivering. “So now what?”

He smirked, and she had a feeling that everyone who wasn’t her should probably dread it. “Now you go put on proper clothing, and we see just what this DMA is.”

Lorna immediately felt sorry for it, and everyone in it.

\--

Thranduil was still riding a heady wave of exhilaration, the surge of magic flowing through his veins. He did not know what he had done, nor precisely how he had done it, but done it he had.

Lorna left him, dripping as she went, and when he turned he found Miranda giving him a look that was equal parts hard, assessing, and unnerved.

“Well,” she said, after a pause. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. You think you could do that again, in the outside world?”

“I do not know,” he said honestly. “I am not yet certain what later consequences I might suffer for having done it now. I was never counted as one of the more powerful of my people.”

Her eyebrows went up. “I’m glad I never met any of the others,” she said dryly, but there was an edge to her voice. She’d seen how much of a potential, direct threat he could be, and Thranduil had no doubt at all that she didn’t like it. He suspected she was as protective of her people as he was of his.

“Some of them, I think, you would not have minded.” Elrond had been tolerable, and had had more use for Edain than many. “Indeed, we might come to wish a few of them had remained on this shore, for I still do not know what I can do about this storm.”

“I think I do,” Miranda said, half-turning to glance at their silent audience. “Having fun back there? Go eat somewhere else. This room’s gonna be re-purposed.”

They went, and stood not upon the order of their going, while Monique’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. Thranduil wondered if Miranda’s leadership was always so lacking in finesse. Given what he had seen of her thus far, he suspected it was.

“Is your wife ever going to rejoin us?” she asked.

“It is a rather long way to our room. Give her time. You mortals are so very impatient.”

Miranda glowered at him, but made no comment.

\--

Lorna, dripping and shivering, hurried to her room as fast as her cold feet would take her. It really was a damn good thing she had no shame, because all those other people were likely going to find future interaction really awkward. At least she wouldn’t.

Once in the bedroom, she dried off in a hurry, struggling into jeans and a flannel shirt. There wasn’t time to brush her hair, so she squeezed as much water out of it as she could before winding in into a knot at the back of her head, securing it with a pencil dug out of her luggage. She had to hunt for her left boot, and nearly snapped the laces in her hurry to tie it.

She didn’t want to admit it, but that had nearly scared the life out of her, but she figured she could be forgiven for it. Having a cafeteria dropped into your bathroom would startle anybody, or at least anybody with any actual sense.

She all but ran back to the bathing-pools, excited in spite of herself. It was wrong and totally inappropriate, given all that was going on in Ireland above, but she couldn’t help it. This was something entirely new, something she would never have imagined existed, and she got to explore it with Thranduil. Watching him when he was first confronted with something new was always a joy, because he was, to her at least, so obviously curious.

The trio were still waiting in the spring-room – Thranduil patiently, Miranda markedly less so, and the beautiful black lady looked ready to burst out laughing. Lorna liked her immediately.

“We’re going to have to get a load’v swimsuits,” Lorna said. “I don’t mind being starkers in a communal pool, but everybody else will.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Miranda said. “Come on, you two – there’s something you need to see.” She turned and strode off without waiting for a reply.

Lorna bit back a curse. Thranduil always adjusted his stride to accommodate her much shorter one, but she doubted that would occur to Miranda. Well, she wasn’t about to run to keep up. Miranda would figure it out sooner or later.

When they left what had once been a cafeteria, she eyed the hallway with interest. She’d expected something, well, _boring_ ; anything with the word ‘department’ in it suggested a lot of beige, with maybe a bland watercolor seascape here and there.

There was no beige, no harsh, eyeball-burning fluorescent lights. Hell, when they rounded a corner, they found the ceiling festooned with multicolored Christmas lights, the walls plastered with giant posters of science-type things – there was a floor-to-ceiling rendering of the periodic table, and a double-helix DNA strand taller than she was, along with hundreds of what were probably equations – not that she’d know. It smelled of a strange, sinus-tickling combination of chemicals and incense.

 _Mad scientists?_ she wondered. Well, either mad or stoned, but she couldn’t detect any trace of weed. “What’re they studying in here?” she called to Miranda, who by now was well ahead of them.

The woman paused, turning. “That’s above your pay grade.”

“You don’t pay me,” Lorna pointed out.

“Exactly. Come on, hurry up.”

“Easy for you to say,” Lorna grumbled. “Your legs are like five inches longer than mine. I’d rather not keel over from a bloody aneurysm.”

“You’re out-of-shape,” Miranda observed, without rancor. 

“I had a C-section eight weeks ago. Of _course_ I’m out’v shape.” God only knew how long it would take her to get her stamina back. If she had to run all over in here, it might be sooner than she thought.

“Climb on my back,” Thranduil said, dead seriously. “I will carry you.”

If Lorna had anything like actual dignity, she probably would have objected, but she didn’t. Thranduil, naturally, managed to maintain every ounce of _his_ dignity even while she clung to his back like a monkey, chin rested atop his head.

 _He_ kept up with Miranda just fine, as she led them into a wider hallway teeming with what, going by their white coats, had to be scientists, all of whom scattered out of her way like chickens. Lorna probably would have, too, if she saw Miranda headed her direction.

Lorna herself probably looked utterly ridiculous on Thranduil’s back, but the looks they gave him were wary rather than amused. Apparently he was intimidating enough that even her latched onto him like a remora wasn’t enough to make him look absurd.

How many people lived in here? Miranda had said it was the bulk of the magical population, so it had to be upwards of a hundred thousand people. Compared to the global population of normal people, it wasn’t much at all, yet to Lorna it seemed boggling.

After the somewhat monochromatic complexions of Lasgaelen, it was a bit refreshing to see more variety. Of the native villagers, only she and Doc Barry had any appreciable melanin content, which had honestly made her a bit twitchy at times. Here there were people from all over, young and old, tall and short, though none save Miranda nearly so tall as Thranduil. Lorna rather liked viewing the world from this vantage point. Maybe she needed to learn how to use stilts.

The Christmas lights and posters gave way to something just as odd, if also weirdly dark – black carpet, with walls of deep grey hung with garden-trellises. Climbing them, flourishing under blacklights, were what she could only think of as albino roses. The stems as well as the flowers were pure white, glowing in the blacklight, their fragrance so strong it was almost a palpable thing.

Thranduil’s hair reacted under the lights as well, and she held out a few strands in front of his face. “Check that out.”

“What in Eru’s name…?” he started, but trailed off.

“They’re called blacklights. They’ll react on anything that’s pale enough.” She craned her head around and found that, while his skin didn’t reflect it, his _eyes_ did. Good _grief_. “Didn’t think you could grow roses with them, though.”

“You can’t, with normal roses,” Monique said. “The scientists have been experimenting to increase our crop yields, and the roses are a side-project.”

Maybe being a scientist was more interesting than Lorna had always thought.

They passed through the roses and back into normal light, which left her squinting and blinking. The crowd around them thinned, and the scent of roses faded into the kind of sharp ozone found only in very expensive electronics. There was nothing in the hallway that could be emitting it, and it left her puzzled until Miranda keyed a door open.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Lorna breathed.

The room beyond was huge and dim, with rows of black consoles that wouldn’t have been out-of-place in a NASA control center. The wall they faced was taken up by a massive window, and it looked onto something unlike anything she had ever seen. From the hitch in Thranduil’s breath, he hadn’t, either.

It was a forest, or what you would get if you took a forest, traced each twig and chip of bark – traced it in glittering lines, and took away everything solid. The trees were towering, ancient, and made of pure light, the lines flaring and ebbing as though each had its own heartbeat. No two were exactly the same shade – they ran the gamut of every color Lorna could name, and a few that she couldn’t.

And there was such power in them – it made her teeth buzz, ghosting over her skin, fizzing along her nerves, a whisper she could half hear not in her ears, but in her mind.

She hopped down off Thranduil’s back, needing solid ground beneath her feet. It wasn’t that the trees looked unreal – they looked _too_ real, as though the world around them was a poor illusion. “What _are_ they?” she asked.

“The Trees,” Miranda said. “Nobody knows how long they’ve been here. Long before us, anyway. Usually they soak up any excess magic in the world, but it’s not working in Ireland.”

Thranduil, still silent, drifted forward, laying one pale hand on the glass. He could see things humans couldn’t, so what was he seeing now?

The people at the various stations glanced at one another, their unease palpable, but none moved to stop him. In that moment he looked alien even to Lorna, an ancient creature of stone rather than flesh and blood.

Nobody spoke, though she was quite certain some of them _wanted_ to. She wasn’t certain he would hear any question that might be posed to him, so she didn’t bother; instead she came up to stand beside him, laying her hand on his. She’d seen through his eyes once already, and that was before she’d been hit with a magical poke to the brain.

_She had no idea at all how to ask for entrance into his mind, but she didn’t need to; as soon as her consciousness touched his, he drew it in, enveloping her in warmth._

_Lorna had always had pretty damn good vision for a human, but it had nothing on Thranduil’s; he could see details she could never have hoped to on her own. To his eyes, the glimmering lines of the Trees branched off into hair-fine veins, offering them a solidity she could not have perceived unaided. The pulse she sensed was more obvious to him, physically as well as visually – these trees, whatever they were, truly had their own heartbeat, stronger than anything that might be found on Earth. They didn’t, she thought, belong to Earth, but they also didn’t belong to this dimension; they belonged only to themselves, occupying a world of their own that they simply allowed the DMA to access._

_She wanted to walk among them, though she knew that want was not entirely her own. Thranduil’s hands itched to touch them, to run his fingers over their luminescent bark until he knew of all that they were, all they had to offer, but Lorna had a terrible presentiment that it would destroy even him. There were some things too powerful for anyone to touch, but oh, she understood the urge._

You can’t, _she told him, curling her fingers around his_. I won’t have you killing yourself just because you want to poke something pretty.

 _She felt his amusement and his irritation_. It is so tempting.

I know, but that doesn’t mean you should do it.

 _Laughter flared warm in her mind_. Since when have you become the sensible one?

It’s been known to happen, _she said_. Once every other blue moon, anyway. Let’s go ask questions and creep people out.

\--

It took a great deal to unsettle Miranda, and even more to make her actually _admit_ to it, but there was no denying she was unsettled now.

Lord Thranduil was inhuman and a bit creepy, yeah, but she’d got used to that in fairly short order. She had, in point of fact, met a few people who were weirder – but not until now had he seemed so very, incredibly, dreadfully alien. His expression when he approached the trees – there was reverence to it, which wasn’t terribly surprising, but there was also a _hunger_ that she would freely admit creeped her _right_ the fuck out. There was something in there he wanted, and the tension in his profile made her suspect, far too late, that this might have been a bad idea.

Fortunately, Lorna must have said or done something, because his pale eyes left the Trees, looking down at her instead. His expression was no more human than it had been, but she grinned at him anyway, her tiny fingers lacing through his. That they could communicate telepathically didn’t make Miranda any happier, either. The fact that they chose not to be a threat to the DMA didn’t mean they _couldn’t_ be one, if they ever wanted to. 

And if they did, there wasn’t much she could do to stop them. She really was glad he was the only Elf left.

“Mistress Miranda,” he said, “I believe there is more to your realm than I had ever suspected.”

“It’s turning mutual,” she said. “We’ve got to find a way to make whatever you’ve done compatible with the Trees. Getting all the Gifted out of Ireland won’t happen fast enough. We need you to stay a while, if you’re willing.”

“You ought to,” Lorna said. “I’ve got to get back at some point and make certain nothing’s exploded, but you’ve got work to do.”

“Without you?” he asked, his tone indicating just what he thought of _that_ idea.

“It’s not like I’ll be on the moon,” she said. “The Door’s in the bloody bathroom.”

No, he didn’t like that, but to Miranda’s surprise, he didn’t argue. “I will see what I can do, but I can make no promises,” he said.

\--

Lorna didn’t much like the idea of Thranduil staying, but it would probably be good for both of them. They could easily find one another in an emergency, and they really did need to learn to function apart from each other, or sooner or later it wouldn’t end well. He’d be here, doing what he needed to do and not stalking her, and she’d be in the caverns, trying to look after all the villagers who probably weren’t prepared to live there long-term. Oh, they’d spent a week during the height of the snow, but they might well be down there much longer this time. She’d keep busy, and not spend all her time pining in his absence like a lovesick idiot. It was probably going to suck for them both, but she had a feeling it was necessary.

They followed Miranda and Monique, who set a slightly more sedate pace through the hallways. Lorna watched Thranduil, and had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

He was never what one might call an _approachable_ person – at least, not to anyone who wasn’t her – but he made an effort with the villagers. Now, however, he was every bit as imperious, as remote and inhuman and haughty as she had ever seen him, and he _had_ to be doing it on purpose. His stride was a touch smoother than normal, but she suspected the arrogance in his expression was purely to mask his fascination – with the Trees, and with the DMA itself. She also suspected he was enjoying the hell out of the uneasy looks he got from every damn person they passed.

“You’re having way too much fun with this,” she said, elbowing him.

“I do not know what you are talking about, Firieth Dithen,” he said, looping his arm through hers. “Promise me you will not stay away long.”

“Depends on how long this takes you,” she said. “I don’t like it either, Thranduil, but if we can’t handle a week apart, we’ve got problems. I’ll look after the twins and make sure nobody does too much damage in the caves, and you do whatever voodoo it is you need to do here.”

“Four days,” he said. “A week is too long. Four days.”

“Six,” she said firmly. She couldn’t be too hard on him, because it wasn’t just her he’d be missing – at least she’d still have the twins. 

“Five,” he countered, with a slight arch of an eyebrow. “I know you are perfectly capable of looking after the twins, Lorna, but if you were in my position, you would be just as insistent.”

“I hate it when you’re right,” she grumbled, following Miranda around a corner.

“When have I ever been wrong?” he asked, and he sounded entirely serious.

“I’ll write you a list while I’m away,” Lorna said dryly, ignoring a snort that could only have come from Miranda. “It’ll be a long one.”

“I will endeavor to make it up to you when we meet again,” Thranduil said, more dryly still. “To whatever degree you will allow it.”

“I hope you have a first aid kit on hand,” Monique said serenely, half over her shoulder. “I can only imagine the soreness later.”

Lorna burst out laughing, trying and failing to muffle it against Thranduil’s arm. “You have _no idea_ ,” she said, looking up at him. “Thranduil, allanah, I’ll tell you what: if you can handle five days on your own – five days where you don’t drive some poor bastard to suicide – I’ll marry you. Prove you can manage without me, and you won’t have to.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I am fairly sure there is something amiss with that entire idea,” he said.

“Not really.” She didn’t know how to put words around it, and she wasn’t about to try in front of strangers. “Just trust me.”

 _I_ do _trust you, Firieth Dithen, and it terrifies me_ , he sent her.

 _It shouldn’t. You know I’ll never leave you, Thranduil, but I’m not going to be ready to marry you until I know we can both function on our own, if we ever somehow get separated._ It didn’t make a great deal of sense even to her, but it was what it was. He really had unsettled her terribly, and this was the only way she could see around it.

He must have sensed that, for he laid his free hand over hers. _As you wish. We will prove this, and then I wish to wed you properly._

Lorna smiled. _Just wait until you’ve seen a proper Irish wedding._

 _Should I be worried?_ he asked.

_Oh yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry, Thranduil, but you really _were_ creepy, and you need this as much as Lorna does, even if you won’t admit it. At least the pair of you will have fun terrorizing Miranda’s underlings before Lorna goes back to the caves.
> 
> Title means “Trees” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with happiness (and take away headaches).


	30. Cabhrú

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thirty chapters. Goddamn. The headaches, unfortunately, persist. They’ve never been this bad before, and I don’t know how long this will keep up, so updates will likely keep being sporadic until the damn things quit. A tension headache can last up to _fifteen damn days_ , and while I’ve never had to deal with one that long before, it’s been almost a full week. I kind of wish someone would just shoot me.
> 
> In which Lorna and Thranduil give Miranda a headache of her own, the Gifted mobilize to aid poor Ireland, and a wild Sharley appears.

Miranda was having a hell of a time not rolling her eyes. At least, if nothing else, Lord Thranduil and Lorna would keep her people on their toes. Monique was keeping an admirably straight face, but she probably wouldn’t be able to maintain it forever.

They met up in a conference room far too large for the small number of people she summoned. It belonged to the scientists, who had over the years painted a scale model of the Milky Way on the ceiling, placing small light bulbs where the brightest stars would be. Each wall was actually a floor-to-ceiling whiteboard, half-filled with the smudged remnants of whatever equations they worked on in their spare time. It smelled rather strongly of burnt coffee and stale donuts, neither of which were in evidence.

The four of them sat at one of the long tables, shortly joined by Sveta and Damodara. Julifer followed, bringing with her a group that Miranda realized must looked very odd to Lord Thranduil and Lorna: a priest, three old-school hippies, and Julifer’s cousin Beth, who had just as many tattoos and a face full of piercings.

The DMA, she realized, really was _weird_.

Lord Thranduil appeared to be doing his best impression of an arrogant statue, his pale eyes taking measure of each and every one of the, lingering a few moments too long for comfort. Even in his modern clothes, he was too imposing for his own good, and it didn’t look like Lorna had any intention of reining him in. Then again, she probably couldn’t have even if she’d wanted to.

“Guys, this is Lord Thranduil and Lorna,” Miranda said. “He’s going to be staying with us a while, until we can figure out how to fix this mess in Ireland. I promise he won’t eat you.”

“Unfortunately for them,” Lorna muttered. “They’re missing out.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Behave, Firieth Dithen.”

“Why?” she asked, matching his eyebrow. “You never do.”

“That,” he said imperiously, “is entirely beside the point.”

“I really don’t think it is,” she retorted.

Miranda fought the urge to rub her temples. It was a good thing Lorna wasn’t staying, because the pair of them would probably drive her insane. “ _Anyway_ , I’m sending out all the finders and nullifiers, but we’ve got to work the storm out here, and prepare for our new arrivals. I don’t know how many there will be, but I’d say a conservative estimate is several thousand. We don’t yet know if this will keep spreading in the next few days.”

“What’s our worst-case scenario?” Beth asked. 

Miranda snorted. “Worst case? We wind up with the entire damn population of Ireland.” There was nowhere _near_ enough room for that many people – the DMA would have no choice but to make itself known to the world at large.

The rest of the group looked every bit as disturbed as she felt. “So what do we do?” Sveta asked.

“You bring in the other Gifted from Lasgaelen,” Miranda said. “I’m sending a few more electropaths with Damodara, to get things set up there. We can run power to the caverns through the Door.”

“That is suspiciously generous of you,” Lord Thranduil said, his eyes narrowing. “I will not be taking refugees who are not related to my people. My halls are my own.”

“Why not?” Miranda asked, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You could fit thousands of people in there.”

“They would not be my people. You forget, Mistress Miranda, that your realm cannot be found from the outside if you do not wish it. The same cannot be said for my halls.” He wasn’t glaring at her, which somehow only made it more annoying; his pale face was almost entirely impassive.

“It’s not like any of these people could find your caverns from the other end,” she said, as patiently as she was able. “Nobody knows where they are.”

“ _No_ ,” he said flatly. “I made your Door, and I offer you my aid. I will not give you my home as well.”

“Don’t _I_ get any say in this?” Lorna asked. “It’s my home, too.”

He opened his mouth, but rather wisely said nothing.

“I don’t want it overrun, either, but Christ, Thranduil, you could fit ten thousand people in there with plenty’v room left over. We don’t know what’ll happen yet – you can’t just say an outright ‘no’,” she went on. 

He looked poised to do just that, but whatever he saw in Lorna’s expression stopped him. “I hope you intend to make it worth it, should it come to that,” he said sourly.

“Oh, I have plans,” she assured him, leering.

Poor Father Andrew shifted uncomfortably, and Miranda took pity on him. “Enough, you two,” she said. “Save it for later. Lord Thranduil, I’ll try not to overrun you with refugees, but I can’t promise anything. I’m putting Johnny in Lasgaelen itself, because I’m sure some bright spark will head that way. Turquoise and Annie will lead out our weather-manipulators past the village and try to counteract this mess as best they can.”

“Will it work?” Lord Thranduil asked, eying the trio. All three were well into their sixties, and still dressed like they’d stepped straight out of Haight-Ashbury circa 1967. Hell, Johnny had a _headband_. Miranda had long suspected it was calculated, since it made people underestimate them. Hell, she’d done it herself, at first.

“Probably not,” Turquoise said, her Alabama accent thick as tar, “but we’ve got to try. At the very least, we might be able to keep it from spreading. Fortunately, Ireland’s an island. With any luck, that’ll confine the magic, because the _last_ thing we need is for this to spread.”

“Sveta thinks this is impossible, us and our Gifts, and that we might get sick or something because’v it. Sorry,” she added, in Sveta’s direction. “I wasn’t doing it on purpose, back there.”

“I know,” Sveta said. “It’s fine. I don’t think I am wrong, though,” she added. “I know we aren’t biologically different from the normals, but this has never happened before. Sooner or later there has to be some kind of price.”

“See, I didn’t need to hear that,” Lorna complained.

Lord Thranduil took her hand. “I may be able to help with that, but I cannot do it alone. Tell me, Mistress Miranda, does this realm of yours touch any besides Earth?”

“If so, none of us have every found it,” she said. “I didn’t realize there _were_ others.”

“There is at least one,” he said. “I was never counted among the more adept healers of my kind. I must make contact with Valinor and Aman, and see if the Valar will allow any of my people to return.”

“What are the Valar?” Miranda asked, uncertain if that was a wonderful idea, or an absolutely terrible one. Lord Thranduil was a handful all on his own.

“You might call them gods,” he said, “though they have not troubled themselves with this shore in several thousand years.”

 _That_ sounded awful, but at this point Miranda would take what she could get. “I might know someone,” she said, “though I can’t promise she can actually do it.” While she had no way of contacting Sharley, the woman had a tendency to turn up when she was needed. She wasn’t anything like a deity, but she wasn’t human; hell she wasn’t even _alive_ in any sense Miranda understood, so it couldn’t hurt to ask. The thought of more Elves set Miranda’s teeth on edge; she hoped they weren’t like Lord Thranduil, or she’d develop a headache she’d never get rid of.

“If she can, ask for Lord Elrond,” Lord Thranduil said. “He was the most gifted of our healers, and part of his ancestry is Edain. You will find him easier to deal with than others. He may choose to bring companions, if he sees fit.”

“Elrond. Right.” Miranda stood. “Let’s get to work. You five, go with Lorna. Sveta, I need you to bring in the other Gifted from Lord Thranduil’s place. Damodara, help your sister. Turquoise, you take Johnny and Cass to Lasgaelen. Father Andrew, Lord Thranduil, you’re with me. This mess has gone on long enough.”

\--

Lorna held Thranduil back while everyone else exited, and hopped up onto a chair to kiss him good-bye. She didn’t want to let him go, which was why she had to.

“I’ll keep hold of everything at home,” she said, breathing in the spicy-rich- _Thranduil_ scent of him, his hair silky on her fingers. “We’re well out’v it underground, so don’t go worrying about us, and it’s not like we can’t get here in a hurry if something _does_ go wrong. Do your thing.”

“And what will you do, while I am away?” he asked, smoothing a hand up her spine.

“Get everybody settled for the long haul. I don’t think anyone’s properly got it through their head, just what that’ll mean – me included.” Nor would they, she was sure, until they’d been there a while.

“Five days,” he said. “If I do not return in five days, you must at least bring the twins to visit me.”

“Deal.” _They_ needed time apart, but she couldn’t deprive him of the twins any longer than necessary. That was just cruel. “Go save the world, Drag Queen Barbie. I’ll make sure nothing explodes while you’re away.”

Wonder of wonders, that startled a genuine laugh out of him. “I was hoping you had forgotten that."

“If I get an embarrassing nickname, so do you,” she said. “You can’t tell me you don’t wear dresses.”

“I _can_ , but I do not have time to press the point. At least nobody actually knows what yours means.”

“I’ll say it in Welsh,” she offered, carding her hands through his hair. “Then it’ll just be between you and me.”

“You are incorrigible,” he said, kissing her one last time. “Go, while I can still let you.”

Off she went, following Sveta and Damodara. It was all well and good to talk of settling everyone in, but Lorna was no better-equipped to do that than they were. Oh, she’d spent more time there, but it was always just a few days at a stretch. Yes, she was far more used to living without technology, but she had no idea how to acclimate everyone else.

If she was smart, she’d have everyone prepare for refugees, just in case. Hopefully it wouldn’t prove necessary, but it would give them all something to do, and if it _was_ necessary, at least it would be out of the way.

\--

Sharley had seen a very great deal in her life, but _this_ was definitely a first.

She hadn’t had a great deal of warning, which was also new, and quite unwelcome. The potentiality had opened up less than a day before the storm hit, which hadn’t given her anywhere near enough time to prepare, but she knew damn well who was to blame.

She’d never troubled Lord Thranduil, because, embarrassingly, she hadn’t known there were any Elves still in this world. He’d stayed so thoroughly out of history since the Obliteration that he was entirely off her radar until three days ago. Needless to say, she wished he was still there.

Just now she wandered Lasgaelen, inspecting its Time and mentally kicking herself. The wind howled, tugging at her ponytail, but its warmth, like so many things, was all but lost to her. The magic she could feel, alive and thriving, but that was its own entity entirely.

 _“Just what do you expect to find here, Sharley?”_ Kurt demanded. He was one of four voices, four invisible, auditory beings who had dogged her steps all her life. He hovered now at her left shoulder, annoying as a mosquito. _“Even you couldn’t have seen this coming.”_ He was a deep voice, vaguely American, though she never could place where.

“I don’t know,” she said, running her scarred fingers over the door to the surgery. If she was going to find a lead anywhere, it _had_ to be here, but _where_? “Shut up, I’m thinking.”

 _“Don’t hurt yourself,”_ Kurt snickered.

She didn’t bother replying. The threads of Time told her the entire village had gone with Lord Thranduil, down to his home – but he wasn’t there himself. He’d gone to the DMA, though it was up in the air whether he would stay or not.

Sharley frowned. The DMA didn’t know she could do this, and it would probably be best if they _kept_ not knowing, but she didn’t have time to traverse the entire compound to get to Miranda. She trusted the woman not to have an aneurysm. 

Shutting her eyes, she stepped back into the dry heat of the Other, the air’s familiar metallic tang harsh on her tongue. Home not-quite-so-sweet home. The sky was a dull red, with clouds like smudges of charcoal, but there was no sun. Where the light came from, she didn’t know, but the Other had no sun, nor moon, nor stars. What it had was heat and thirst and storms without rain, forests that had been dying by degrees for four hundred years; monsters and Memories and isolated settlements of humans who dared brave life on the ground.

It was a nightmare of a place, but it was home, and it was her shortcut. On Earth, her modes of transportation were limited; she didn’t legally exist, which meant planes were a no-go, and in any event she tried to avoid large groups of people. From within the Other, she could find where she needed to be on Earth – but she could also do it with the DMA. The Trees drew her like a magnet.

She trod across the wasteland of shiny black rock, the voices uncharacteristically silent. She had a feeling they were as curious about this Lord Thranduil as she was. Sharley herself would have to resist the urge to slap him. If she was still capable of headaches, she’d probably have one right now.

Here – it was right here. One step, two – _change._

Sharley had only ever been to see the Trees once, some thirty years ago. The control room hadn’t had half so many people in it then – there had to be close to fifty now, and twenty or so were clustered near the window.

Lord Thranduil was easy enough to spot – his height alone would make him stand out anywhere, but his skin was as eerily pale and smooth as her father’s, the one ear she could see distinctly pointed.

He’d caused them all so much grief that she had no compunction at all about stepping up behind him and peering over his shoulder, breathing cold on the back of his neck. “Whatcha doing?”

He recoiled before he even saw her, rounding on her and stepping backward with a shudder. Somebody shrieked, and Miranda swore.

“God _dammit_ , Sharley! Why the hell didn’t anybody tell me you were here?”

“I didn’t come in through the door,” Sharley said, inspecting Lord Thranduil. Creepy son of a bitch, she’d give him that; she’d never seen such eyes before. They were every bit as inhuman as Jary’s, as her father’s, arctic blue flecked with silver.

 _“Well, he’s not as bad as Azarael, but he’s bad enough,”_ Jimmy said, circling Lord Thranduil as he spoke.

Lord Thranduil, who blinked, tensing, though he didn’t recoil this time. “Mistress Miranda,” he said flatly, “you are in fact the mistress of understatement. What have you brought with you, Mistress Sharley?”

 _“Wait – can he_ hear _us?”_ Layla demanded. She was the youngest of the voices, or at least she sounded like it; her voice was very much that of a little girl.

“Yes,” he said, staring at Sharley with eyes like diamond drill-bits, “I can.”

“I’m sorry in advance,” she said. “Miranda, I need to talk to you.”

“Sharley, how did you get in here?” Miranda demanded. She was paler than Sharley had ever seen her, her tension very nearly palpable. “You said you can’t teleport.”

“I can’t,” Sharley said. “You’ll find out how I do it in about eight years. Probably.” _That_ line of potentiality was unnervingly strong. “Now come on – we need to talk, and he needs to come with us.”

\--

Thranduil had seen many a horrifying thing in his life, but they were nothing like Sharley. She wasn’t just alien, she was _wrong_ – wrong on a fundamental level he could not articulate. It wasn’t the artificial blue of her hair, or the scars that covered her bare arms and throat, or even the deathly pallor of her skin. She drew no breath, and no heart beat in her chest – she was a dead thing, and yet the light of her fëa burned so bright it hurt to look at her.

She looked young, perhaps Lorna’s age, but her oddly mismatched eyes were ancient, and there was a sorrow in them he could not stomach. All these things put together made Thranduil’s skin crawl – it was not a sensation he often felt, and he did not welcome it now.

“I need your help, Sharley,” Miranda said. “If you can do it, anyway. I need you to get in touch with the Valar, and see if they’ll let some of the other Elves come back.”

Sharley didn’t respond right away. Her odd eyes darted over his face, his hair, searching for he knew not what. “I can try,” she said. “Aman might not let me in.”

“How do you know of Aman?” he asked, not certain he wanted to know.

“You,” she said, head tilting slightly to the right as she regarded him. “Your history. I’m not so certain a place called the Undying Lands is going to want _me_ there.” There was a strange air of _stillness_ about her, even when she moved; never in his life had he seen anyone so very like a statue. Every instinct he had told him to retreat, but that he would not do – he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. That she could read so much simply by looking at him – it didn’t bear contemplation.

“But you will try,” he said.

“But I will try,” she echoed. Mercifully, her strange eyes left him, settling on Miranda. “Von Ratched’s coming,” she said. “And by ‘coming’ I mean he’s somewhere in Ireland right now. He’s by himself, so he can’t do _too_ much damage, but you oughtta know he’s here.”

A ripple of unease passed through the room, and Julifer groaned. “ _Why_ will you not just kill him already?” she demanded, rubbing her right temple. “You always know where he is! Just get rid of him!”

Sharley’s eyes narrowed, and something flat, something ancient, something _cold_ entered them, coiling behind their mismatched depths like tendrils of freezing fog. Again, Thranduil had to fight the urge to back away from her, and he barely won. “ _I. Don’t. Kill. People_ ,” she said, the words flat and nearly inflectionless. “I guide, Julifer Parata. You don’t want me to get involved.”

“Why not?” Thranduil asked, fascinated in spite of his revulsion.

Those unholy eyes returned to him. “Because,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do about getting ahold of these Valar, and bring some Elves back, but I can’t promise they’ll want anything to do with me.” 

Quite honestly, Thranduil would not blame them. At all. Still, she was but one person, and her intentions were pure, even if she herself was horrifying. “Ask for Lord Elrond,” he said. “Tell him Thranduil needs his aid.” 

Sharley smiled, and he fought the urge to shudder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we will shortly see Sharley visiting Aman. God help it. Hopefully these headaches will die soon, so I can actually get back to a regular posting schedule.
> 
> Title means “Help” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with happiness and rainbows.


	31. Ag siúl Aman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, at long, long last, I give you a chapter. In which Sharley goes to Aman, Miranda decides to monkey with Nenya, and Thranduil wonders if there isn’t actually a reason nobody gave him that ring until there wasn’t much power left in it.

So. Aman.

In truth, Sharley had no idea how to get there. For that, unfortunately, she needed Azarael. While her foster-mother was every bit as powerful as he was, she had been born, so to speak, of the Other. She had a much harder time leaving it – and in any event, she was needed far more right where she was. She’d never had much opportunity to travel. If anyone could get Sharley into Aman, it was Azarael, which meant she was actually going to have to _talk_ to him. Dammit.

Jary lived on a giant airship, surrounded by people, which was how Sharley had grown up. Azarael, by contrast, occupied a vast fortress of black stone, all by himself. Though it was perched on a cliff beside the Other’s only, very turbulent sea, it was all but silent.

It smelled strange, too, even out here in the empty, flat ground between the curtain-wall and the castle itself. Not _bad_ , just…strange. Dusty and spicy and vaguely wrong.

The castle itself was massive, and looked as though it had been carved rather than built, the towers unsettlingly spiky. The stone was smooth and seamless, and shinier than it ought to be, reflecting the red light of the sky.

She ascended the front steps, eying the massive doors for a moment before shoving her way inside. How could he live like this, so alone in such an oversized place? It was the polar opposite of Jary’s warm, crowded ship, and it set Sharley’s teeth on edge.

How this man could be her father, she didn’t know.

His presence was easy enough to sense, and she tracked him through the vast mausoleum. Given that he had no cleaning staff, the pace ought to be dusty as hell, but there wasn’t a dust bunny in sight. She couldn’t imagine him wielding a broom, so she chalked it up to whatever weird brand of magic he had.

While she’d only visited him here a handful of times over the last thirty years, she’d never once found him actually _doing_ anything. He was always standing at a window, looking out at the wreck of this world, and that was how she found him now.

Azarael looked much like a male version of her – or rather, she looked like a female version of him. A touch taller than Lord Thranduil, he was even paler, his long hair a very dark reddish-brown, gathered at the nape of his neck. His eyes, however, were a deep, fiery orange, bright as glowing coals, and they still never failed to creep her out.

He didn’t turn to her before he spoke. “I assume you want something of me, or you would not be here.”

“I don’t want, but I do _need_ ,” she said, refusing to be guilted. He’d turned her into what she was now, entirely without consultation; as far as she was concerned, he could suck it. “The last of the Elves on Earth fucked up, and I need to get into Aman, to see if I can’t bring at least one back with me.”

_Now_ he turned to her, and though his face was all but expressionless, she could feel his surprise. “You ask much of me, Sharley,” he said.

“Do I have to remind you that you owe me?” she asked, holding up her scarred right arm. “I don’t have time to find a way in on my own, but I’m sure you can.”

He shook his head. “The Valar will not like it.”

“I kinda figured that. I don’t have to be there for long,” she said, trying not to scowl.

Azarael arched an eyebrow. “You will have to be there as long as it takes you to convince anyone to leave with you,” he pointed out.

Now she _did_ scowl. Given that she was, well, _her_ , no sane person would willingly follow her without a hefty dose of persuasion. Even humans could sense how very wrong she was – if Lord Thranduil’s reaction was any indication, the Elves felt it much more strongly.”And whose fault is that? I didn’t ask for this, Azarael. I should’ve stayed dead.”

“Will you ever forgive me for that?” he asked, and there was something akin to sorrow in his voice. It was very faint, but it was nevertheless there.

“No,” she said flatly. “I don’t know how you can even dare ask me that. _Look at me_ , Azarael,” she said, the words still terribly flat. “Look at what you made me. Give me one fucking reason I should forgive you for that.”

_“Chill, Sharley,”_ Layla said, hovering anxiously behind her. _“You can’t go to Aman all pissed off.”_

Sharley pinched the bridge of her nose. Layla was right, unfortunately. “Show me to Aman, Azarael. I’ve got work to do, and not enough time to do it in.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but wisely kept it to himself. Sharley had little sympathy for him, given what her life, so to speak, had been like since he made her what she was. She missed sleep; she missed breathing without conscious effort. She missed being able to things she touched as a human would have – missed her heartbeat, the feel of _life_ in her veins. Azarael had cursed her, and she was stuck like this until the end of time.

No, she couldn’t muster much sympathy at all.

So she followed him in silence through his vast, empty halls, the light of the sky dimming through the tall windows. He had no torches, or he didn’t need them, but Sharley’s night vision was not so acute. When darkness fell in the Other, it fell fast, and she had to follow the glimmering lines of his Time.

Azarael led her to a room she had never before seen – not that that was saying much. This one did have a few torches, and when he let them, she found herself faced with a whole row of massive doors, all well padlocked, several crisscrossed with chains.

“Where the hell do all of these go?” she asked.

“That is not for you to know,” Azarael said. “Suffice it to say that one of them leads to Aman.”

“What, just like that?” She eyed him suspiciously. “You’ve dealt with the Valar yourself, haven’t you?”

“Once,” he said, “and that is all I will tell you.” He waved his right hand, and the lock on the nearest door sprang open. “Good luck, daughter. Yavanna is the one you should seek. She will be most likely to aid you.”

Quite honestly, Sharley would be grateful for any aid she could get. She stepped through the door, into the most beautiful place she had ever seen.

The first thing she noted was the sky, cloudless and bluer than she had ever seen it on Earth. The second was that she could actually smell the sun-warmed grass beneath her boots, as she would have when she was alive.

She stood atop a tall slope, the ground all but obscured by a riot of wildflowers in every color she had ever seen. Instinct made her take off her boots and socks – she didn’t want to crush the foliage any more than necessary.

Sharley glanced down at her clothes, and sighed. Her worn jeans and grey tank top were hardly appealing, and probably wouldn’t help her in persuading anyone, but at least she wasn’t carrying any weapons. The Valar might know her for what she was, but Lord Thranduil hadn’t, so maybe the other Elves wouldn’t, either.

There was a vast plane below her, scattered with the massive oak and beech trees that were too sparse to be called an actual forest. A glittering river wove like a ribbon among them, but there was no sign of anything like civilization. Strangely, a number of the trees blazed with fall colors, while others looked like they were hardly in bud. The rules of seasons must not apply here.

Curiosity led her to touch the shimmering Time-lines, and what she saw would have made her gasp, if she’d still been breathing.

_Far back – far, far back, there was no sun, no moon – the light came from two of the loveliest trees she had ever seen. One silver, the other gold, each impossibly large, their flowers exuding what seemed very like moonlight and sunlight – bright shafts that speared through the starless dark of the sky._

_The land they shone upon was much like that on which she stood now, but younger – so much younger. The green leaves were veined with silver; the autumn-red almost seemed to glow, edged with glittering gold. It was alive, and more than alive – and in this moment, touching its history, Sharley was, too. Its borrowed pulse beat in her chest like her now-useless heart, her bloodless veins singing with it. This place was better than Earth – certainly_ much _better than the Other – and oh, she could explore it and its history forever, if only Aman would let her, but she knew it would not._

She blinked, coming back to herself, and started off down the slope, trusting that one of the Valar would find her sooner or later. Her very presence had to stick out horribly to anyone with higher senses, and she hoped like hell that they wouldn’t all band together to kick her out. Not that she could blame them if they did.

\--

Thranduil had no idea just what good Miranda actually thought he could do. The magic of the Trees was entirely alien – his only hope was modifying Nenya, and that he did not know how to do. The only one who would was Celebrimbor, and he was long dead. All of his considerable knowledge had been taken to the grave.

But then, perhaps not. Sharley could read history – there had to be at least a chance that she would be able to see how he had made the Rings, how he had imbued them with their power. If she could not, no one could, unless Celebrimbor had been re-bodied and was actually willing to follow Sharley. Given how he had died, Thranduil suspected he still lingered in Mandos’s care.

Thranduil himself currently stood out of the way in the room beside the Trees, eying the glittering ring on his right hand. If Sharley could somehow rejuvenate it…always had he felt cheated, being denied one of the Three. To have Nenya at even half of its capacity would be a gift beyond measure.

What, he wondered, had happened to the other two? Had Elrond and Mithrandir kept theirs? If so, perhaps Elrond would return with his, if he returned at all. Thranduil would not fault him if he refused to go anywhere near Sharley.

His gaze traveled to the Trees. He still wanted to walk among them, but Miranda didn’t want to risk what it might do to him – and she threatened to go get Lorna if he didn’t cooperate.

Lorna, whom he already missed with alarming desperation. They had been parted before, sometimes for days at a time, but he had always known he could go to her if he wished. He still could now, of course, but she would not be pleased with him if he did. He still did not understand her bizarre insistence on their brief separation, but he knew that in this it would be unwise to cross her.

“Lord Thranduil, we need to borrow that ring for a minute,” Miranda called.

He took it off and crossed the room to her, wondering what in Eru’s name she thought she could do with it. She took it, and passed it to a woman every bit as tiny as Lorna, with short black hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes.

The woman frowned, turning it over in her hands. “I don’t know,” she said. “I can try, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Try what?” he asked.

“To see if there’s any way to duplicate the power source,” Miranda said. “Just because your magic isn’t like ours doesn’t necessarily mean we can’t work with it.”

“‘Necessarily’ is the operative word,” the smaller woman said, still inspecting the ring. “This is so far beyond alien. Lord Thranduil, what does it draw off of?”

“It was forged with a power of its own,” he said. “With it I can manipulate certain aspects of nature, and in some measure it draws off of that, but it is largely self-contained.”

“I was afraid of that,” the woman sighed. “Our own power, insofar as we can guess, mostly comes from the Earth itself. We don’t know what causes it in the first place, but the world seems to, well, _feed_ it. I don’t have a clue how to interface it with your ring – but if I can, you’ll have at least some access to our magic, too.”

_That_ was a thought that made him worryingly greedy. He could feel the strength of the magic currently free-floating in the world, and he wanted it far more than he ought to.

“I do not know how wise that is,” he forced himself to say.

“Why not?” Miranda asked.

“Because of how very much I crave it. It was not given one of the three Elven Rings until everyone else had sailed, and their power was greatly diminished. I think they did not trust me.” He was, after all, kin to Thingol, who shared his weakness for gems; perhaps they thought him too avaricious by association. Perhaps they were right.

Miranda shared a glance with the other woman. “It can’t hurt to check,” Miranda said. “Even if it _would_ work, we don’t actually have to do it.”

Thranduil didn’t trust her not to, but he highly doubted she would succeed in the first place. Let her try, if it would make her feel better. “Do with it as you wish – but if you fail, return it to me.” He wished he could be certain that they truly would fail, but they were an inventive people, the Edain. They really had come so very, very far in little time at all.

For the first time, he realized how truly frightening that could be. Few Edain, he thought, gained true wisdom – they simply didn’t live long enough, yet they had so much at their disposal.

He hoped they failed with the ring. He did not know if he could trust himself, should they succeed.

\--

Sharley walked until she reached the trees, and there she paused.

When she had been born, cars were a rarity. The air in rural Georgia had been more pure than anything she’d found on Earth in later decades, but it had nothing on this. She forced a few breaths, and smiled.

“You should not be here.”

She turned, and found herself confronted with a woman who had to be a good eight feet tall. Her skin was the hue of damp earth, but her long hair was copper, her eyes as golden as an owl’s..

“I know,” Sharley said. “I was sent to find someone.”

“Sent by whom?” Fucking hell, this woman radiated Azarael-levels of power. It buzzed all through Sharley, along her deadened nerves.

“Thranduil. He kinda made a mess on Earth, and he told me to get Lord Elrond.” She knew it sounded ludicrous, but it was true.

The woman took a step toward her, but paused. Unease crossed her features as she took measure of Sharley. “What are you, child?”

Sharley shrugged. “I’d say ask my father, but I doubt even he knows. I’m not here to hurt anyone – I just need to get Lord Elrond, if he’ll actually go with me. Thranduil was pretty insistent.”

The tall woman was silent a moment, still watching, as though she were trying to read whatever passed for Sharley’s soul. “He cannot speak your language,” she said at last.

“Could you maybe ask for me? If you’ve got any way to look at Earth, you’ll see what I mean.” At this point, Sharley would give her spleen just to get this Elrond. “I’ve put a lot of work into Earth. I’d rather it not go to hell.”

“Follow me, child,” the woman said, her expression softening a bit. “I will see what might be done for you.” When she walked, forget-me-nots sprang up around her feet, their tiny flowers a more vivid blue than Sharley had ever seen on Earth. Her guide was entirely silent – even her green dress didn’t so much as rustle as they passed beneath a sunbeam.

\--

Yavanna did not quite know what to make of this creature. Everything about her was an abomination, but she carried with her sorrow, not malice. Her very presence was simply wrong – she ought to be ejected from Aman, and yet Yavanna could not do it.

The woman was silent as they walked, but she stared at the sun-drenched land with a kind of wonder Yavanna suspected she seldom felt. She was _broken_ , this woman, in some fundamental way even Yavanna could not name.

Elrond almost certainly did not speak her tongue; if she was to have any hope of convincing him, she would need a translator. The Eldar were no longer allowed to leave Aman, but somehow Yavanna doubted that would stop this woman.

“How did you get here, child?” she asked.

“My father,” the woman said. “He had a door, though I have no idea how, or why. He has a lot of doors, actually, and I don’t know where any of them go.”

“Who is your father?” Yavanna couldn’t imagine who could have sired such a creature.

The woman sighed. “His name is Azarael,” she said. “He was Death on Earth, until he quit a few thousand years ago.”

Azarael…Yavanna knew the name, though it had been some three thousand years since she had heard it. He had visited Námo once, though what they had spoken of, she did not know. With such a father, it was no wonder this poor child was an abomination. Part of Yavanna wished to take her hand in comfort, but the rest of her found the very idea horrifying.

“I will take you to Elrond,” she said instead, “and do what I can to convince him to follow you, but I can make no promises.”

The woman smiled, but it was sad, and not a little bitter. “I won’t hold it against him, if he won’t go. Thranduil shoulda come with me, but they need him where he is. He kicked off this mess, but it’s not entirely his fault. I just wish I knew what else helped him along.”

“Should you?” Yavanna asked, stepping into the cool, shallow water of a winding creek. 

“Yes,” the woman sighed. “Knowing is what I do. It’s the only point to me, and I _don’t_ know. I can’t find it anywhere. I see – I know what might happen, all _sorts_ of things that might happen, but not all of it, or why. Why now? In four years, yeah, something bit was gonna happen, but I didn’t see this coming at all.”

Yavanna paused at the opposite bank. “You see what is to come?”

The woman came to a halt beside her, with a fleeting ghost of a smile that held no amusement. “I see what is and what was, what could be and might have been, what might happen and, somewhere in there, what _will_ happen. I just can’t usually figure out what that is until it’s about to happen.” She met Yavanna’s eyes, brushing a strand of blue hair out of her face. “You had some beautiful trees here, once. Even prettier than what you’ve got now.”

Yavanna froze, ice cascading through her. There was madness in those mismatched eyes, and an almost unfathomable grief for one so young. It had been hundreds of thousands of years since the Two Trees had illuminated Aman – how could this poor, broken woman see it now? Even the Valar could not see what was not within their own memory, let alone the future, for Eru had made them so. Surely nothing and no one was meant to hold such power.

She looked at this woman, this creature, this _abomination_ , and a terrible pity stirred in her heart. Elrond would not go with this woman – not unless given reassurance by one he trusted. “Someday, you must show me what it is that you see, child. For now, follow.”

\--

Elrond had been in Aman long enough that the wounds of his fëa had healed. Though he still mourned the loss of his only daughter, he had his sons, and he had been reunited with Celebrían. He had lived a life without fear for two millennia, and thus received a nasty shock when Yavanna found him, trailed by a creature so horrifying it was all he could do not to recoil. _Where_ had Yavanna found her? How had she entered Aman in the first place?

He stood on his veranda, shaded by climbing roses, rooted to the spot. The creature – woman – was unarmed, and didn’t move in any sort of threatening manner, and yet his skin crawled.

“Do not be afraid,” Yavanna said, picking her way through the bright garden. The contrast between her and this blue-haired wraith made the latter all the more horrifying. “She will not harm you. She comes to ask your aid on Thranduil’s behalf Apparently, he has caused something of a mess.”

_That_ Elrond could well believe, but it was difficult for the thought to register, given how very _wrong_ this woman was. Perhaps she did not mean him harm, but that did not make her incapable. “What did he do?” he asked, forcing himself to step into the sunshine.

“She told me that it is best you see for yourself,” Yavanna said. “It involves storms and rogue magic, and Thranduil needs your abilities as a healer.”

Elrond looked at the woman, at her odd stillness and the sorrow in her eyes. Even at this near distance, he could hear no beat of a heart, and she drew no breath. She was a dead thing, and yet she lived. The mere thought of accompanying her anywhere was nearly enough to make him ill.

Yavanna left the woman’s side, and came to take his hand. The gentle warmth of her touch soothed him, clearing the fog of horror from his mind. She would not have brought this creature to him if she thought her a danger, but that did not make the thought of following her any easier. Everything about her was so very, very wrong.

“What must I bring?” he asked.

“I would suggest athelas,” Yavanna said. “I think it no longer grows in that world, or Thranduil might not have need of your aid.”

What in Eru’s name could Thranduil have done? He had been a recluse since his father died, long before the rest of the Eldar sailed – what could have drawn him to interfere with the Edain world?

Elrond supposed he would find out, since he could hardly say no to Yavanna, no matter how much he wanted to. “Very well,” he sighed. “I will go.”

“Not alone, you won’t.” Elladan appeared from around the far edge of the trellis, followed by Elrohir. “Someone has to stop you strangling Thranduil.”

Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose. Those two always had been sneaky, even for Elves. “Your mother would murder me.”

“We _are_ adults, Adar,” Elrohir said. “We can do as we please.”

“Would you really hurt your mother so? She would be in fear for you every moment.”

“We –” Elladan started, but fell silent. The strange woman was staring at him, her mismatched eyes sharp and bright as diamonds.

She took a step forward, and both twins retreated. It was all Elrond could do not to follow them. There was no malice in her bearing or expression – there was nothing at all he could name. He could almost call it fascination, but not quite.

“What is she doing?” he asked.

“She reads Time,” Yavanna said, watching the woman. “She has seen something in Elladan’s.”

“But I haven’t _done_ anything,” Elladan said, wide-eyed. “Not really. Not like Adar.”

“Not yet,” Yavanna said. “I think, perhaps, you are meant to. Elrond, you must allow him to accompany you.”

“Not without me,” Elrohir said. “Aren’t I meant to do anything?”

“Do you _want_ her staring at you?” Elladan demanded. “What is she?”

“An abomination,” Yavanna said simply. “One who has much work ahead of her. It would seem your son does as well.”

“You know,” Elrohir said, “Naneth could always come with us. She is much better now.”

That was the last thing Elrond wanted. Celebrían had been all but destroyed when she sailed all those years ago; she was much better now, but leaving Aman might well undo that.

But it was her decision. He could not withhold the choice from her, however much he feared it. “Very well,” he sighed. “We will ask your mother.”

Yavanna must have said something to the woman, for she smiled – a real smile, and it made all the difference. In that moment, even with her pallor and scars, she might have been a living Edain. He wondered if she ever _had_ been alive. It was hardly polite to ask, but Thranduil might know. 

Well, he was committed now. There was nothing for it but to go forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took long enough, I know. Knock wood, the headaches have abated. Easter, however, brought its own fun: I don’t know if it was my dad or I, but one of us set the deck on fire and didn’t realize it until we saw the smoke. (He and I shared the same ashtray, and it was really windy, so it could have been either of us.) Amusingly, my daughter was the only one of us who didn’t flip out.
> 
> Title means ‘Walking Aman’ in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with life and love.


	32. Na Elves Teacht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spoke too soon about the headaches; the last one hung around for four days, but I figured out I can kill them if I horribly abuse my pain meds, and add in six ibuprophen. It left me feeling a bit nauseous, but at least the headache was gone. I went in for some blood tests, to see if something in my system is out of whack, so we’ll see what comes of that.
> 
> In which Team Elrond heads to Earth (and has no idea what to make of it), Lorna is a bit of an idiot (and doesn’t understand why everyone says she is), and Sharley doesn’t yet realize just how much trouble she’s about to cause (and, since she can’t see her own future, _won’t_ know until it’s dropped on her head).
> 
> Many thanks to [Nirva](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirva/pseuds/Nirva), who made sure the Russian in this chapter makes sense.

Though she kept very busy, Lorna was dismayed to find she missed Thranduil so much it almost hurt. She really _was_ as bad as he was.

She decided, quite firmly, that she was going to try to learn how to cook on the huge wood-stoves. The problem was that out of the entire lot of them, only Kevin and Big Jamie had any real idea what they were doing. 

The twins in their carriers sat on the long wooden center-island, watching the three of them puzzle out the stove. It was much bigger than any of them had ever seen – so tall she’d have a hard time cooking on it without a stool. Christ, the ovens were so large Big Jamie would probably fit in one. 

She got the fire started while both men examined the stove itself, muttering something about burners and coils, listening to the twins gurgle to themselves behind her. At this point, she wondered if they weren’t trying to develop their own twin-speak – she’d read about that happening somewhere during her pregnancy.

Thranduil, she thought, would probably laugh at them. She could build a campfire easily enough, but the stove was so deep that she had to shove some of the wood to the back with a big brass fire-poker, the heat sending sweat trickling down her face, stinging in her eyes. She shoved away while the men bickered, trying to build something like a cabin-shape – _ow_.

“Shit shit _shit_!” Lorna jerked backward, landing hard on her arse, and desperately floundered her way out of her flannel shirt, the entire left sleeve of which had caught fire. The stink of burning cotton filled her nose, but she got the thing off before her tank top could go up, too, while patches of her arm stung like mad bastards, angry and red.

“ _Motherfucker_ ,” she growled, and hissed when she touched one of the burns. Already, blisters were forming all over the marks, tight and shiny.

“Well done, Lorna,” Big Jamie said, hauling her off the floor as though she were one of his own children. He set her atop the work-island, inspecting her arm in the lamplight. “I realize you miss your husband, but sure God there are _limits_.”

“Shut it,” she said, almost automatically. “Brilliant. Is there any way we can not tell Mairead about this?”

Kevin snorted. “And miss her giving out at you? Not hardly. I’ll never hear the end’v it about the turkey. Now it’s your turn. We’d best get you to Nuala.”

“Why?” Lorna asked. “Just tie a rag around it.”

They both looked at her, and she saw the shift in their expressions when they realized she wasn’t being sarcastic.

“What?” she asked. “It’s just some blisters. I had worse as a kid.” She hiked up the left leg of her pyjama trousers, ignoring the fact that she hadn’t shaved her legs in a week. Though it had long since faded, the skin on her shin was smooth and hairless with old scar tissue. “My older brother and started a fire in the back garden when we were kids, and like eejits decided we’d play tag around it. Guess how that ended.”

“Why didn’t you go to A&E?” Kevin asked, giving her a look she didn’t know how to interpret.

“And tell my da? Yeah, right. I washed it in the bathroom sink and wrapped a dish-towel around my leg. Healed just fine.”

Both of them were looking at her more strangely than ever, and Lorna belatedly realized that this was another of what she’d come to call cultural differences – things she took for granted, but others thought disturbing.

“Lorna, that had to be a hefty second-degree burn, if it’s scarred like that,” Big Jamie said. “You don’t just wrap a dish-towel around it.”

“Worked just fine for me,” she retorted, a bit defensively. “It only got gross when the blisters burst.” This was certainly as painful as that had been – the burns all throbbed now, but it wasn’t _that_ bad.

Big Jamie pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lorna, if you don’t go see Nuala, she’ll skin the lot’v us later. The stove can wait.”

Lorna grumbled, but he was right. Nuala could be surprisingly terrifying for a short woman. “Fine,” she sighed, hopping off the counter. It sent pain jagging through her hip as well as her arm. “But you all worry about nothing. Somebody help me with the twins.” Sometimes, she reflected, living among civilized people was a pain in the arse. Literally.

\--

Yavanna had explained to Elrond that the world they would be traveling through was not their final destination.

“Sharley tells me it is a terrible place, but you are safe with her, and you will not be there long,” she said, while the family gathered their weapons. Celebrían, to his unease, had agreed to go with them, and donned her sword. She had never been a warrior – not like her mother – and he feared for her.

The woman, Sharley, watched him, and said something to Yavanna.

“She says that anything that wishes to get to you will have to go through her,” Yavanna said. “I believe, on balance, that might be impossible. As she puts it, you cannot kill what is already dead.”

Elrond glanced at her, and at Celebrían. If the woman did indeed see Time, perhaps she knew what had happened to his wife. If so, it was more than _he_ knew, for even now she would say little of it, to him or anyone else.

She now wore sturdy traveling clothes, a tunic and leggings in earthy tones, despite being told they would not be _traveling_ long at all. Her hair, a darker gold than either of her parents, was bound back from her brow – she did not look like the former Lady of Imladris, but then, perhaps that was the point.

The lot of them followed Sharley, Yavanna keeping pace with them. If only she could go with them, but Elrond knew she would not. She was a Vala; her place was in Aman. He, however, had been born in Ennor, as had all his family.

“Sharley will take you to Thranduil,” she said. “He speaks their tongue, and doubtless he will teach you. He has always adapted somewhat to the world as it is now, but he maintains his halls.”

“Who lives there now?” Elladan asked.

“A number of Edain, apparently. There has been a village beside what remains of his forest for centuries. According to Sharley, they have always known of him, but left him alone until he came out of his own accord. More than that she will not say.”

Had Thranduil gone mad in his isolation? He had never had any use for Edain – had had little enough for most Eldar, come to that, unless they were his own people.

They ascended a long slope, the sun setting the moment they crested it. “Here I must leave you,” Yavanna said. “Trust Sharley. She will not lead you astray.”

“Why do _you_ trust her so, my lady?” he asked.

There was sorrow in Yavanna’s eyes. “Because I believe I know what she is,” she said, “and what she must do, eventually. She will do everything within her power to keep Ennor and its people safe.”

Elrond rather thought he didn’t want to know just what that might entail. “Very well,” he said. “We will return when we are able.” He stepped forward when Sharley beckoned – straight into a nightmare.

\--

Sharley had been expecting the Elves to react badly to the Other, and she wasn’t mistaken – not that she could blame them. The little room in Azarael’s fortress wasn’t bad, but Azarael himself most definitely was.

In spite of whatever Yavanna had said to them, all four drew their swords. Azarael didn’t do anything so plebian as roll his eyes, but Sharley had a feeling he wanted to.

“Daro,” he said, and the quartet froze, blinking. 

“You speak their language?” Sharley asked.

“I speak many languages,” he said, and added something to the others. She only caught the words ‘Námo’ and ‘Mandos’, and wondered again what he had done in Aman.

The four relaxed, but only marginally, sheathing their swords. None of them looked happy, but she couldn’t blame them for that, either.

“Take them onward, daughter. Give them to your unfortunate Elf first, so that he might explain. It would behoove you to learn their language yourself.”

Sharley fought a groan. She was fairly fluent in Russian, but that came from working a year on a fishing trawler with a crew that was, save for her, entirely Russian. She’d been immersed in it then, but she wouldn’t be immersed in the Elves’ lingo.

“I’ll try,” she said. “Can’t make any promises.”

 _“Why am I not surprised?”_ Kurt muttered. It was all she could do not to tell him to fuck off.

She led them out through the fortress, into the bleak yard, feeling for a soft spot in the Other’s reality. Unfortunately for the Elves, she had to touch at least one of them to bring them through with her, and she already knew how well _that_ was going to go over.

With a certain amount of resignation, she mimed holding hands, guiding them into a chain. She didn’t give Lord Elrond a chance to question it – she grabbed his, ignoring his recoiling, and grimaced in distaste herself – she didn’t like touching people any more than they liked touching her.

It only took a few steps, and she released him as soon as she was able – she’d taken them to the last place she’d seen Thranduil, since he was the only one who could actually communicate with them.

The room, she found, was rather less crowded, though that didn’t stop somebody shrieking on sight of them. If this was going to become a habit, she was buying earplugs.

How long had they been gone? Time in the Other passed far slower than it did on Earth, and she didn’t know how long a day was in Aman. She’d find out soon enough – meanwhile, here was Thranduil, in all his creepy glory. 

“Oh, good,” she said. “Elrond’s family wouldn’t let him leave alone, so maybe they can help, too.” She wasn’t about to mention the twin yet – not when she couldn’t see exactly what he was meant to do. Whatever it was, it was probably going to be something big.

Thranduil arched one of his heavy eyebrows, looking decidedly less than thrilled, but that was his problem. “Thank you,” he said, a little grudgingly.

“Hate to say this, Sharley, but Yaeko needs your help,” Miranda said. “There’s a hot tub with your name on it later, if you want.”

Sharley smiled. Finally, something to look forward to.

\--

Elrond had not known what he expected of modern Ennor, but this was not it.

Never had he seen such a room, but _certainly_ he had never seen such trees. Surely this was not Ennor at all, for nothing in that world could be so painfully lovely. They belonged in Aman, yet here they were. 

Thranduil, at first glance, hardly looked like Thranduil at all. He wore simple garments, much like those of the Edain around him, and the effect was beyond jarring. Mercifully, he truly seemed fluent in their tongue – but then, he’d had a few hundred years to learn it, after the Obliteration.

“Mae l’ovannen, Lord Elrond, Lady Celebrían,” he said, his eyes lingering curiously over the latter. He knew the circumstances of her departure to Valinor, and was visibly surprised to see her now. “Unfortunately, I badly need your aid. Much of Eire soon will as well, if it does not tear itself apart first. I must say from the start that this is not entirely my fault.”

That did not sound anywhere near as encouraging as he likely thought it did. “What must we do?” Elrond asked.

Thranduil’s eyes flickered over all of them. “Follow me. More accurately, follow her.” He said something to the frankly disturbing woman beside him – she was nearly as tall as he, fair-haired, with the most manic blue eyes Elrond had ever seen. She was certainly not like any of the Edain as he remembered them, right down to her clothing – never had he seen a mortal woman wear trousers.

She gave him a long look of piercing scrutiny in return, before leading the group down a very long corridor.

“This world is not at all as you left it,” Thranduil said, stating the entirely obvious. “The Edain have advanced very rapidly in a century. They can do things with medicine you and I have never dreamt of, but there is much we do that they cannot. That _I_ cannot.” He didn’t sound pleased by the admission, but that was no surprise.

“Why do you care, Thranduil?” Elrond couldn’t help but ask.

“I have reasons, and you will meet them in time,” Thranduil said, in a tone that discouraged further questioning. “Meanwhile, there are Edain developing abilities they should not have, and are wrecking Eire without intent. We may wind up with thousands of them here, possibly injured by their or another’s gifts.

“I still have many supplies in my halls, but some I must reserve for my own people,” he added. “Someone will have to gather them, sooner or later.”

“How will we get to your halls?” Elladan asked. “Where _are_ we?”

“That,” Thranduil said, “is rather a long story. This place has many Doors, and one of them, unfortunately, opens into the cavern of hot springs in my halls.”

Elrond decided he didn’t want to know. They were in a wider corridor now, thronged with Edain of all shapes, sizes and skin tones, in such a variety of clothing that his family actually didn’t stand out unduly. There wasn’t a wasted movement to be seen; each strode with purpose, weaving around one another almost like a dance.

It was a strange, almost bewildering sight, and he was relieved when the Miranda-woman led them to what Thranduil said were the healing-wards. Though they were not at all like Elrond would have labeled such.

The walls were neither wood nor stone, painted a bland shade of beige, though the floor was some kind of pale tile. It smelled of something he could not identify, harsh and bitter – not like any herb at all.

And there were…things, strange things he did not recognize, and couldn’t even guess as to their identity. Thranduil caught him looking at one, sitting on what was presumably a desk, though the material it was built from was unfamiliar as well.

“Computers,” he said. “While I cannot yet read the alphabet, the things Edain do with them are extraordinary. They have something called the internet, which holds almost the entire sum of their race’s knowledge, all of which can be accessed through it. They are a few of the many things the Edain call machines. Though I will spare you motorcycles,” he added, with a slight twitch.

“What are those?” Elrohir asked, gingerly approaching the computer.

“A contraption on two wheels, that can go much faster than any horse,” Thranduil said. “Something I never wish to endure again.”

Elrond wondered just what in Eru’s name he had really gotten himself into.

\--

Sveta was ready to choke someone.

She had gone to collect Lasgaelen’s Gifted, only to discover Doctor Barry had wandered off God knew where. Half the village was searching for her, but given the size of these caverns, she could be anywhere.

Meanwhile, Lorna had given herself a few rather fantastic burns, and was arguing fiercely with the nurse, Nuala, over just what ought to be done about it.

“They’ll be busy as hell in the DMA,” she said. She was sitting on an exam table, dabbing at her arm with a damp cloth. “Just smear some Neosporin on it. I know we’ve brought some.”

Nuala, red-faced, looked two seconds away from braining her with the nearest blunt object. “Lorna, you need actual burn treatment,” she said, pointing at the worst of them, which was somehow in the crook of her elbow – ugly and red, with blisters the size of her thumb. Sveta didn’t want to know how she’d managed that.

“I told Thranduil we’d be three days apart,” Lorna said, shying away from the finger. “My arm won’t fall off before then.”

Clearly, Nuala wasn’t used to dealing with someone so stubborn. Fortunately, Sveta was – she did, after all, work with Miranda. She marched over to the pair, and gave Lorna the best glower she was able.

“Lorna, ne glupi,” she said. “Ruka konechno ne otvalitsja, no esli podcepish' infekciju, ty pozhaleesh' chto sama ee ne otorvala.” _Lorna, you are being stupid. Your arm will not fall off, but if that gets infected, you might wish it would._

“You people worry too much,” Lorna groused.

Sveta’s eyes narrowed. “In Russian,” she said. If Lorna had to actually think about what she was saying, maybe she would think about her arm.

Lorna sighed, pausing. “Hvatit volnovat'sja,” she tried, the words slow and halting. Her accent was still awful, but given how thick it was when she spoke English, Sveta didn’t hold out much hope there. “Esli ja ujdu, to uvizhus' s Tranduilom. Problema sama otpadet.” _If I go, I will see Thranduil. That would defeat the point._

Sveta really didn’t really know what that point was, but it hardly mattered. “On ne obraduetsja, esli uznaet, pochemu ty zdes' zaderzhalas'. Tebe nuzhen vrach. Tut takoe skoro nachnetsja, chto ty vrjad li voobshhe ego uvidesh'.” _He will not be happy if he finds you stayed here because of that. You need a doctor. It will be so busy soon that you might not see him anyway._

“Fine,” Lorna grumbled. “But if I get stepped on, I’m blaming you. And before you ask, I don’t know how to say that in Russian.”

“Nichego, uznaesh',” Sveta said, standing back enough to let her hop off the table. _You will learn._

“I pochemu mne uzhe strashno?” Lorna asked. _Why does that scare me?_ Sveta wasn’t a tall woman, but she still towered over Lorna, who eyed her suspiciously.

“Pоtomu chto ty horosho soobrazhaesh',” Sveta said. “Obychno.” _Because you are not stupid. Usually._

“You’re worse than my sister.”

Sveta chose to take that as a compliment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aside from Thranduil, Sveta really is the only one who can actually get Lorna to do anything. Next to Miranda, Lorna’s positively reasonable.
> 
> Title means “The Elves Arrive” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with light and love.


	33. leighis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil and Lorna troll poor Elrond and his family, who have no more idea of what to make of her than they do of the entire crazy DMA, and Yaeko gets a visit from Sharley that she winds up _really_ regretting (though not as much as everyone else will). The most recent tag in this fic is quite apt.
> 
> I also posted [Sanitarium](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6534211), the first in a series of short stories I wrote ages ago that follow Sharley's rather extensive past.

If everything ever actually settled down, Lorna was afraid her head might explode. Thranduil was still determined to teach her Sindarin, and she had a feeling Sveta wasn’t going to cut her any sack. That was two new alphabets, on top of everything else. Given how terrible she’d been at Cyrillic the first time around, she already knew this wasn’t going to end well.

At least that had to wait until everything stopped going to hell – and given what she found in the DMA, she doubted that would be any time soon.

Sveta and Nuala hustled her down the corridors, shoving their way through an ever-growing crowd, most of whom looked like they lived here. Given that the crown of her head was about shoulder-height to most people, she couldn’t see what any of them were doing.

“Nuala, if you don’t stop pulling on my arm, I’ll break your legs,” she growled. Nuala was trying to be careful, but she kept jostling the burns – and then someone bumped into her. Her hand closed on Lorna’s forearm so hard the blister burst.

“Oh, _ew_ ,” Lorna groaned, jerking her arm away. That was one of the more disgusting sensations she’d ever known; it was even worse than the pain, and that was before the gauze stuck itself to her skin. “Thanks, Nuala. Thanks a lot.”

“Sorry,” Nuala said, wiping her hand on her jeans with a grimace. “Would you people move? I’ve got a burn victim here!”

“Aren’t you dramatic,” Lorna said. “It’s just my arm, for fuck’s sake.”

Nuala opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the power cut out, plunging the entire hall into darkness. Yellow emergency lights kicked on a moment later, the glow rendering everyone sickly and sallow.

Sveta swore, but from the rest of the crowd there was only grumbling, not panic.

“What the hell was that?” Lorna asked, her heart lurching.

“My guess?” Sveta said. “Someone brought in electropaths who weren’t sedated enough. At least three or four, to knock this section of the grid out. Lorna, go with Nuala and don’t be stupid. I need to go see what those idiots have done at the Wicklow Door.”

She was off as soon as she’d finished speaking, leaving Nuala to drag Lorna along. _How_ could this crowd be so calm? There was no way something like this was an everyday occurrence, yet they soldiered on without a qualm.

Somebody else bumped into Nuala, jarring Lorna’s arm again. _That_ was twice too many times, so she gave in and did what she’d always done in a crowd: start kicking people. She had on her heavy work boots, so it didn’t take much to get her way cleared – even if she did get cursed at in a variety of languages.

“Oh, piss off,” she said, when a tall, bald man glowered down at her. “I’ll wipe my arm on you if you don’t shove over.”

He looked at her arm, and at Nuala, and did as he was told. Good boy.

Lacking Sveta, they didn’t actually know where they were going, but a tall Indian woman in pale pink medical scrubs accosted them, leading them through the throng until they reached the hospital.

Lorna hesitated at the door. Hospitals had almost never meant anything good for her: she’d watched her mam get taken off life support, and been told of Liam’s death the same day she lost her first child. Yes, she’d safely had the twins, but look at how she and Thranduil had had to leave. She should never have let them drag her here, but Sveta was hard to ignore.

There was enough of a line behind her that she wound up herded into the waiting-room anyway, though she dodged toward the left wall to avoid getting trod on.

It wasn’t _quite_ chaos, but it probably could be if someone stepped wrong. Most of these people had to be staff, given the assurance with which they moved – even the ones who weren’t dressed for any kind of hospital job. No doubt they were getting ready for whatever massive influx of people the finders brought in.

The Indian lady – Lorna didn’t know if she was a doctor or a nurse – led her and Nuala back into the fray. What little Lorna could see over the sea of heads looked like hospitals everywhere, bland and impersonal, and she wrinkled her nose at the bitter scent of disinfectant. This section still had actual power, the fluorescent lights harsh overhead.

Looking at these people fan out among the other hallways, she felt even more like an idiot who didn’t belong here. God knew how injured the refugees might be, and here was her, with nothing more than a burned arm.

“Shoo,” the Indian lady said, herding her into a triage room. “My name is Indira. I’m a doctor here. I’ll have you treated and out of here before the rush arrives, I promise. Let me get some supplies.”

Well, that was a relief. Lorna picked at the soggy gauze, and Nuala slapped her hand.

“Stop it. I bet you’re the sort that picks at scabs, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Lorna admitted, hopping up onto the exam table. The paper crinkled beneath her.

“Well, don’t you dare this time. I’ll tape oven mitts to your hands.” Knowing Nuala, that might not be an idle threat.

The doctor returned with a plastic kit, and following her, to Lorna’s mingled delight and dismay, was Thranduil – Thranduil, and four other people who could only be Elves.

Like Thranduil, they were stupidly pretty, and three of them had to be related – she thought they must be a family, though the sons, if sons they were, had taken very much after their father, in facial features as well as coloring. None of them were dressed half so flamboyantly as Thranduil usually was; the fabric looked expensive as hell, but it was sturdy, in shades of brown and green, probably made for traveling.

These poor bastards. Earth was going to eat them alive.

“Firieth Dithen, I cannot leave you alone for five minutes,” Thranduil said, shaking his head as he approached. “What did you do?”

“The stove did it, not me,” she grumbled. “How did you find me?” There was no way anyone could have told him she was here, was there?

“I smelled you,” he said. “Healer, would you allow my companion to tend to her? He needs to be refreshed in working with Edain. Humans,” he clarified.

“You _smelled_ me?” Lorna asked, even as the doctor moved out of the way. “Do you have any idea how _creepy_ that is?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Creepy or not, I cannot help it. This is Lord Elrond,” he added, nodding to the apparent eldest of the three men. Males. Whatever. “He is the one I sent Sharley to retrieve.”

Lorna looked at him more closely. It was obvious he didn’t understand a word either she or Thranduil was saying, but there was a daunting intelligence in his grey eyes. Fabulous hair was apparently an Elf trait not limited to Thranduil, though his was nearly as dark as her own. “Tell him I say hi,” she said. “And I hope Earth won’t prove too much for him.”

Thranduil’s answering smirk made her wince. She had a feeling he was going to have way too much fun inflicting Earth on them all.

\--

Elrond was officially out of his depth. His only comfort was that Thranduil didn’t seem to know a great deal about all this technology, as he called it, either.

He hadn’t told any of them why he decided to make a beeline through half of these odd healing wards, and Elrond still didn’t know, for he couldn’t understand anything at all.

Of more interest was the change in Thranduil himself. It was subtle, but Elrond certainly saw it – Thranduil was, in some ways, quite as arrogant as he remembered, but he seemed to have a sense of humor now, albeit a dark one. When faced with this tiny Edain, however, something in him lightened – and though Elrond didn’t know what he said when he spoke to her, there was unmistakable affection in his voice. The other Edain appeared to be exasperate and amuse him, but he _cared_ about this one.

Elrond very much wanted to know why.

She’d burned her arm rather badly, though she seemed to be more irritated than in pain. Elrond went to inspect it as asked, but when he looked at her, she gave him keen assessment in return. Her eyes were certainly unsettling – a vivid green such as he had never before seen in an Edain face – and he had an uncomfortable feeling she was reading him somehow. 

Her hröa might otherwise be unremarkable, but her fëa – that had to have been what drew Thranduil to her, in whatever fashion he had been drawn. It was so brilliant it was nearly blinding, and gave her a loveliness her hröa did not possess.

“How did she do this?” Elrond asked, looking at her arm.

“She says the stove did it,” Thranduil said dryly. “The Edain of this world rarely use fire anymore. It is no wonder.”

It was clear she didn’t speak Sindarin, but she must have read his expression, for she glowered at him. She also twitched when Elrond touched her, tensing.

“She dislikes being touched by strangers,” Thranduil explained. “She will not hurt you, so long as you do not hurt her.”

“ _Could_ she?” Elrond asked, more than a bit dubious.

Thranduil’s reply was more than a bit chilling: “She could kill you without so much as touching you. And she is not the only one. These Gifted Edain are extremely dangerous, especially when they are untrained. It is why these people are gathering all of them from Eire that they can.”

This was not at all what Elrond had agreed to – but then, Yavanna had told him so little. He certainly should not have brought his family.

Both twins peered over his shoulders as he took a bag of athelas from his pocket. Thranduil filled a cup of water from what appeared to be some sort of spigot, handing it to him. The material of the cup was unfamiliar, smooth and flimsy, but it would work.

The woman eyed it, the twins, and him, wary even when Thranduil spoke to her. Perhaps he had not yet explained Elvish medicine to her, or perhaps she simply didn’t trust Elrond because he was a stranger.

“Who is she?” Elladan asked, while Elrond crushed the athelas leaves. Their sweet fragrance was a merciful relief from the harsh, bitter odor of the healing wards.

“Her name is Lorna,” Thranduil said. “She is my wife.”

Elrond almost dropped the cup.

\--

Adar looked like something had burst in his brain, but Elladan was more curious than ever. Thranduil’s temper and disdain for almost everyone and everything were legendary – as was the depth of grief for his lost wife. What in Eru’s name could have induced him to marry again? And an _Edain_ , no less? Surely he knew that he was only setting himself up for more heartbreak, and in not much time at all. He was not like Arwen – he could not follow this woman in death.

Perhaps he truly _had_ gone mad.

In any event, this woman, this Lorna, did not look happy to be touched. Adar rallied himself, and she stayed still but very tense while he washed the athelas water over the burns with a white, gauzy cloth. They really were some spectacular burns, too – Elladan would wager she had actually fallen into the stove. Eru knew she was tiny enough. Her wedding night must have been interesting – and, having thought that, Elladan immediately wished he hadn’t. That was a mental image he did _not_ need, thank you very much.

“How did you meet her?” he asked, looking at Thranduil.

“She trespassed in my forest,” Thranduil said, with evident amusement. “She did not believe I existed.”

“What did she do when she found you?” Elrohir asked.

“Swore at me, and tried to run away.”

 _That_ Elladan could believe. He couldn’t imagine how intimidating Thranduil must look to an Edain.

“How romantic,” Naneth said, a smile in her voice.

Thranduil snorted. “Lorna and romance are not well-acquainted. She is crude, profane, and volatile, but she is also loyal, and protective, and gives without expectation of anything in return.”

There was something unsettling in his gaze as he spoke, and Elladan wondered if this Lorna knew just what she had gotten herself into. That Thranduil loved her was plain to see, or as plain as it could be for someone so hard to read, but the possessiveness was downright unnerving.

When she caught his expression, she gave him a light kick to the shin, and he had the grace to look…not abashed, but at least less disturbing. Yes, she knew, and apparently loved him anyway. Lunatic woman.

She frowned, watching Adar work. The athelas soothed the burns, calming the angry redness, which the Edain healer watched with interest, listening while Thranduil presumably explained it.

“I let the last of my athelas die out centuries ago,” he said in Sindarin. “I thought I would have no further need of it.”

“I have brought seeds,” Adar said. “I had feared you might have. You lived alone for far too long, Thranduil.”

“Well, I am alone no longer. I have some three hundred Edain in my halls, and will doubtless have more before long. Eru knows I have room.”

Elladan rather wanted to see that. Aman was beautiful beyond compare, but at times he missed action, missed _change_. He was a child of the turbulent Third Age, a warrior in his bones, as endlessly curious as his brother. And it certainly looked as though Ennor now had much to discover.

He needed to learn their language, and he needed to learn it swiftly.

He said as much, and Thranduil snorted. “Do not learn it from Lorna,” he said. “Her accent is so heavy even her own people have difficulty understanding her at times. They simply pretend to, and hope that they are right.”

Elladan really, really wanted to know this ridiculous woman. She seemed to have relaxed a little, now that Adar was wrapping her arm in more of that gauzy white bandage. 

“Lady Celebrían,” Thranduil said, “will you be able to bear the sight of the wounded, or shall I have one of your sons escort you to the halls?”

“I believe I can bear it,” Naneth said gently. “Aman has done wonders for me.”

Adar didn’t look so certain, but he knew better than to say anything. What Naneth wanted, Naneth got. Thus had it always been, and thus it would always be.

“As you wish,” Thranduil said. “I will show you all to my halls in time, but first I would like a moment alone with my wife.” He said something to the two Edain women – presumably the same request – and the little group left him to it.

\--

Thranduil was absurdly pleased to see Lorna, even though he knew she would not linger. She was stubborn enough that she would have her three days, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“You are a walking disaster, Firieth Dithen,” he said, brushing the hair back from her brow.

“I’d argue with you, but I really can’t,” she said, grimacing a little. “What did he put on my arm? It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Athelas,” Thranduil said. “I know you mean to leave again, you stubborn creature, but give me a kiss before you go.”

“You,” she said, “are greedy. Come here.”

He did as bidden, cradling her jaw and tilting her head back so he could kiss her. Seated on this high surface, neither of them had to get cricks in their necks to do it. It was soft at first, testing the waters, letting her deepen it at her own pace.

She twined her arms around his neck, fingers carding through his hair, parting her lips and kissing him with happy languor. She tasted like sweet, smoky tea and Lorna, and he stepped closer, pulling her against him, cupping the back of her head as he explored her mouth with mounting hunger.

“Stop making me not want to leave,” she said, when she came up for air.

“Is it working?” he asked, kissing his way down her neck, smiling against her skin when she shivered.

“ _Yes_ , you areshole,” she said, and let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a moan when he bit at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, arching against him. “Do you really want to be walking around with a hard-on for the rest of the day?”

“It is a risk I am willing to take,” he said dryly.

“Berk.” Lorna tugged on his hair to draw him back up, kissing him with a fervor that made him wish he could take her right there on the table.

Someone pounded on the door. “Knock it off, you two,” Nuala called. “No shagging in hospital.”

“Cockblocker!” Lorna called back. Her hair was tangled from the passage of his hand, her pupils blown wide, a flush across her cheeks. “You’ll pay for this later, Mister.”

“I look forward to it,” Thranduil said, giving her as wicked a smirk as he could.

She arched an eyebrow. “When you get back in three days, we’re getting married,” she said. “ _My_ way. Let the thought’v the wedding night keep you going until then.”

He was quite shocked by the suddenness of it, but he was hardly going to complain. “In three days?”

“Three days,” she affirmed. “Prove you can do this, or no wedding and sex for you.”

Obstinate woman – but he thought he understood. This was a test he _had_ to pass before she would accept him. “We may well have little time alone, for some while yet,” he said. “There will be much work to do, even if we manage to halt the storm outside.”

“I know,” she sighed. “But we can make the most’v what we’ve got.” Thranduil knew her well enough that he was aware of what she wasn’t saying: her life would be too short to waste any more time.

He still meant to do something about that. As soon as he figured out what. “We can,” he said, brushing a light kiss across her brow.

They emerged into the hallway to find an exasperated Nuala, Elrond and his sons looking monstrously uncomfortable, and Celebrían, who looked very much like she wanted to laugh. Aman really _had_ done her good.

“Are you done yet?” Nuala asked. “I hope you know you can’t have it off without a condom.”

“What in Eru’s name is a condom?” Thranduil asked.

“It’s best if she shows you,” Lorna said. “ _Later_. Right now we’ve got to go make sure nobody’s burned anything down.” She stood on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek, and then she and Nuala were off into the crowd.

Neither Elrond nor the twins said anything, but Celebrían arched an eyebrow. “There is a time and a place, Thranduil,” she said. “This is neither. I do not know how you two would manage it anyway, given your height difference.”

“ _Naneth_ ,” one of the twins groaned, covering his face.

“We manage just fine,” Thranduil said, with a tinge of asperity. “It simply takes a little…creativity.”

“Can we talk about anything else?” the other twin asked, looking rather ill. “Anything at all? Plague? Famine?”

“Have neither of you married yet?” Thranduil asked, looking from one to the other. Surely if they had, they would not be so squeamish.

“No,” the other said. Thranduil really needed to learn to tell them apart. “In truth, Aman is very beautiful, and very peaceful…”

“And very boring?” Thranduil guessed. “Ennor is not boring, but I think you will long for Aman by the time we are through. Speaking of which, I believe the first of our arrivals are here.”

As if on cue, another group of Edain joined the sea of healers – most filthy, many injured, and all looking as though they were drugged – Sveta and her ilk had clearly been busy. It made their movements drunken and sluggish, but at least they didn’t inadvertently destroy anything.

“How many of them can we expect?” Elrond asked, as a tall man with a dirty bandage around his head staggered by.

“Thousands,” Thranduil said. “Possibly hundreds of thousands. Eire holds several million people now. Their medicine is such that the Edain, on average, live much longer than they used to, though they have fewer children. Give some of your athelas to their scientists. Perhaps they may duplicate its healing properties.”

Elrond gave him a startled look. “They can _do_ that?”

“The Gifted might be able to. Come, follow me – the most injured will be given first priority.” He himself was going to be somewhat useless compared to Elrond, for he had never been terribly adept at healing. His real role was going to have to be that of translator.

\--

Yaeko was alone in her lab, until quite suddenly she wasn’t. There was a Sharley beside her, where there had been no Sharley a moment before.

Naturally, Yaeko screamed blue murder, staggering backward. The ring flew out of her hand, but Sharley caught it before it could bounce away under a counter.

“Sorry,” she said, and didn’t sound as though she meant it at all. “You need my help, don’t you?”

“I – yes,” Yaeko said, trying to calm her thundering heart. “Can you?”

“I can try.” Sharley never looked alive, but under the lab’s dimmed fluorescents, she looked more corpselike than ever, her bone-white skin almost tinged with grey. So far as Yaeko knew, no one had ever asked her how she’d gained such vicious scars – probably because nobody dared.

She didn’t _smell_ like a dead thing, though. She smelled, weirdly, like a thunderstorm, like lightning and ozone. It – and she – was so unnatural that Yaeko hoped that anything that could be done, could be done soon.

Sharley turned the thing over in her long fingers, eying the way it glinted in the light. “I need the trees,” she said. “Then I need Thranduil.”

“Why?” Yaeko asked.

“The Trees are the only power source strong enough to jump this thing. They’ll be the bridge between Elf magic and yours. Since the ring is Thranduil’s, I’ll anchor the bridge to him, but I need a really strong source for your magic, too, because I’m not actually anchoring it to any specific person.”

“You need to find the strongest Gifted?” Yaeko asked. “How will you know which of us it is? There are so many of us, especially right now.”

“Oh, I know exactly who it is,” Sharley said grimly. “You know how I said you don’t want me interfering? Well, I’m interfering now. I think I have to.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Yaeko asked, formless unease curling in her stomach.

“It means I need Von Ratched.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH SNAP. Everyone’s favorite sociopathic doctor is on the way, and he ain’t gonna be happy about it. He was hoping he’d never see Sharley again, poor bastard. Just wait until he meets Thranduil. Lorna is going to be the most territorial tiny person ever.
> 
> Title means “healing” in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my hungry, hungry soul. Om nom nom.


	34. Interlude: The Photomanipulation Edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While I'm hard at work on the next chapter, recent events have pissed me off enough that I had to take a break and make some pictures instead. Everyone that lives on my road is now trapped, because of a landslide at the head of it:  There was a small patch that _looked_ driveable, and a bunch of idiots did just that, with the result that now the other side of the road is collapsing. Yay. 
> 
> So, have some photomanips, until I'm done with the next chapter.

I give you Lorna and Thranduil -- that's totally the expression she'll give Von Ratched, when she meets him:

(Is it any surprise people wonder how they manage, ahem, _certain things_ with their height difference?)

Aaaaand, two for the price of one! I give you the reason both Sharley and Von Ratched creep everyone right the fuck out:

Sooner or later, someone really needs to say that to her in-story.

This has been a drive-by photo-mugging. We will shortly return to our regularly scheduled posting.


	35. Gásailín Daonna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Sharley drags Von Ratched to the DMA, he and Thranduil meet, and some rather unfortunate things are set in motion.

Sharley did not _want_ to get Von Ratched, and Miranda was going to want to kill him as soon as she saw him, which she couldn’t be allowed to do. Von Ratched had any number of potential parts to play – some of them might be good, and some might be bad, but he was necessary in every potentiality she could see. He was a sadistic asshole, but he was a very _powerful_ sadistic asshole.

She probably ought to warn Miranda first, but that would take time she didn’t have. Thranduil could wipe Von Ratched’s memory when they were through with him. This would take too long for her to safely wipe it from his timeline.

Though she hadn’t told Julifer, she knew exactly where the bastard was – he’d made it into Ireland yesterday, and had already set up shop in a hospital in Dublin. What he was _doing_ there, she didn’t know, but she had a pretty good guess. He was, in one way at least, very predictable.

A quick trip through the Other let her into Dublin – Dublin, which looked rather like a bomb had been dropped on it.

The storm still raged, the wind howling through the streets, tugging at her ponytail. It moaned around the buildings, unsettlingly similar to the sound of an oncoming tornado. The clouds were still nearly dark as night, but the light was an ugly, sickly yellow, broken by the occasional strobe-flash of brilliant lightning.

She doubted there was an intact window in the entire city – they were shattered, yawning mouths of blackness, broken here and there by candleglow. Still the air was strangely warm, the smell of petrichor and lightning heavy in the air.

The hospital still had power, though the light was pale and weak; they must be running on backup generators, and who knew how long _that_ would last. Less time than it ought to, if Von Ratched was involved.

Sharley tended to stand out in a crowd, but she was good at passing unnoticed when she wanted to. She moved very silently, and was somewhat adept at keeping to other people’s blind spots. It didn’t work very well in a crowd, but she figured everyone in here would be too harassed to care much.

The sliding door to the ER stood wide open, so she strode on in, dodging injured and medical staff alike. Von Ratched wouldn’t be here openly – he’d be hiding somewhere, holed up in some appropriated area with who knew how many poor Gifted fuckers.

She wove through the crowd, wrinkling her nose at the scent of charred Sheetrock and the harsh, chemical odor of fire-retardant. It was probably a wonder the whole place hadn’t burned down yet.

The din around her faded as she sought the Time-lines, their glimmer so much brighter than the world around her. Thanks to Von Ratched’s age, his was heavier than that of any other person in this building, and she followed it up four flights of pitch-dark stairs, its glow the only light she had.

The fourth floor was as jammed as the ER – mostly. She found a section that was unnaturally empty, and wasn’t at all surprised; Von Ratched could easily keep others away with his telepathy.

She found the man himself standing alone in a recovery room, staring out the broken window at the wreck of the city. He was as tall as Thranduil, and the most intimidating human being she had ever met. His close-cropped hair had grey mixed in with the blond, but that damn serum of his probably meant he wouldn’t look much older than he had when she’d seen him at Woodstock – not that he would remember that.

She snuck up behind him, silent as a ghost, and stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear: “Boo.”

His reaction wasn’t half as violent as she’d hoped, but it was dramatic by his standards – he whirled, grabbing her by the throat with the speed of a striking snake, only to release her a moment later, naked revulsion on his face. It was a sentiment she share, but it was worth it.

It was difficult to tell in the dim light, but she would swear he paled a little. He did indeed look almost exactly as he had fifty years ago, right down to his damnably creepy eyes: they were so pale a grey they were nearly white, and occasionally caught the light like an animal’s. If he was a normal person, she’d peg him at about forty, but he was _not_ normal. He was a hundred and fifteen years old, and if he kept on with the serum, even she wasn’t sure how long he might live.

“Corwin,” he said. His voice was deep, and almost entirely American, for all he’d lived in Germany for the first forty-odd years of his life. “Shouldn’t you be dead by now?”

“I am,” she said flatly.

 _“Hi, Vonny,”_ Layla piped up. _“You should be dead, too.”_

 _“Yeah, why_ aren’t _you?”_ Kurt demanded.

 _“He’s like a cockroach,”_ Jimmy said. _“And he’s too tall to step on.”_

Irritation flashed through Von Ratched’s eyes, and Sharley smiled. “You’re coming with me, Doctor,” she said.

He arched an eyebrow, some of his natural arrogance surfacing. “Am I?” he said. “And where is it you think you will take me?”

“Probably the only place you wanna go more than here,” she said. “I’m taking you to the DMA.”

Von Ratched wasn’t stupid enough to jump on that without reserve. “Why?”

“Because I need to use you,” she said bluntly.”You could fight me, I guess, but I know you remember what happened the _last_ time you fought me.”

His eyes narrowed, but Sharley knew she had him there. He’d never admit it, but he was afraid of her – or, more accurately, he was afraid of the Stranger, which was only smart. She was, too.

Rather than reply, he grabbed her wrist, his face twisting in disgust as he did. She let him, revolting as it might be, for she knew what he was doing.

He might be unsettled, and he might be disgusted, but when he met her eyes, she saw in his the unholy curiosity she had come to dread when she was his patient/prisoner.

He released her arm, unconsciously wiping his hand on his pants. “You really are dead, aren’t you?”

 _“Duh,”_ Jimmy said, and Sharley imagined that if he had a body, he’d be rolling his eyes. _“Does she_ look _alive?”_

“Fuck off, Jimmy,” Sharley sighed. “You’ll go with me whether you like it or not, Vonny.”

Again there came the arrogant eyebrow. “Do you truly think you could _make_ me go anywhere, Corwin? You are neither a telepath nor a telekinetic.”

 _Damn_ did she hate this son of a bitch. Rather than reply, she grabbed the swirling lines of his Time and _squeezed._

She had to give him credit – he didn’t so much as gasp, though it had to hurt like a bitch. Given how much pain he’d put her through, she couldn’t do anything but smile.

“Yes, Vonny,” she said, releasing his Time, “yes, I can. You’re gonna come with me, and you’re gonna do it now, whether you like it or not.”

The glare he bent on her would, once upon a time, have unnerved her greatly. Sharley had forgotten many things, but the two years of torture he had inflicted on her when she’d been alive were not among them.

But she had scared him in the end, just the once. Well, the _Stranger_ had scared him, but same difference. He might not know what she was, but he knew what she could do – and now he couldn’t hurt her.

“Don’t bother with the telekinesis,” she said, because she could feel him trying. “It won’t work on me now. Are you gonna come quietly or not? ’Cause I can make it hurt worse. _Way_ worse.”

She didn’t expect that threat to sway him, so when he said, “Fine”, she was deeply worried. Von Ratched was a slippery little shit, and she knew better than to think she could actually control him. His Gifts might not work on her, but the man was a sneaky genius. He’d find his own ways to raise hell, no matter what she did. Unfortunately, that meant she was going to have to stick to him the whole time he was in the DMA, which was about as appealing as an un-anesthetized root canal. The fact that he couldn’t hurt her didn’t make being around him any easier.

“How, exactly, do you propose we get there?” he asked. “In case you failed to notice, Ireland is something of a mess.”

Sharley smirked. “I know a shortcut,” she said, holding out her hand.

He eyed it as he might a venomous spider. “Do you not fear I will read the minds of all within the DMA?”

“Oh, I know you will,” she said. “That doesn’t mean you’ll remember any of it later. Be aware, there are beings in the DMA far more powerful than you are.”

Anyone else would have looked nervous, but Von Ratched only looked intrigued. He took her hand, and they stepped into the Other.

\--

It was rare that Von Ratched stepped into the complete unknown, but curiosity compelled him. He’d spent ninety years trying – and failing – to find his own way into the DMA, and though he knew Sharley intended to do nothing good with him, it wasn’t enough to deter him.

She would be dealt with later, once he knew how. She definitely needed to let go of his hand first – her touch had grown no less horrifying with age.

He found himself abruptly in a strange, hot, arid land, beneath a sky the hue of old blood. Sharley dragged him along, apparently unwilling to linger.

“What is this place?” he asked.

She turned. “Home,” she said.

 _"I want to go home," she said, and her voice broke on the last word. "It isn't much, but it's better than here. I miss the wind and the lightning and the dead, and you have no right_ \-- no right -- _to keep me here, you bastard." Her hands, as scarred as her arms, clenched into fists, knuckles going white. "You can't do worse to me than's already been done. You're human and mortal and I was born with my brain in pieces, and someday you'll know what that's like, and I hope I'm there to laugh." Her voice was downright savage, even hoarser due to such unaccustomed use. She had always seemed subtly alien, but there was nothing subtle about it now. The electric-petrichor scent of her had somehow intensified, and it was almost enough to make him draw away. Corwin might be the most intriguing subject Von Ratched had ever found, but she also unnerved him to a degree that nothing and no one ever had before._

“Are there dead here, Corwin? Are there more like you?”

“There’s nothing else like me,” she said. “Now come _on_. If you actually survive everything that’s coming, I’ll drop you in here and you can explore to your heart’s content.”

 _“Yeah, until something eats him,”_ Kurt snickered.

“Not helping, Kurt.”

 _"A storm's coming for you, doctor," she said at last, still staring at the wall. "Not for a long time yet, but with that serum of yours, you'll still be plenty young enough to see it. Your world and mine, and they both might die, and I can't warn anyone, I_ can't _. If you knew, you'd try to do things different, and there's already so many potentialities and oh God it_ hurts. _"_

“What are you, Corwin?” He had asked her that question nearly sixty years ago, and he still had no answer.

Her strange, bright, mad eyes watched him a little too closely. “There’s no word for what I am,” she said. “Come on, Doctor. Time’s wasting.”

_"Sharley, stop," Sinsemilla said._

"Why? _" Corwin snarled. "I never say anything, and it's my damn turn. He gets away with everything right now, but all accounts balance, Vonny. The interest will catch up to you, and_ you'll _be the one who hurts." The sweat was running down her face now, which was so flushed he worried for her blood pressure_.

This time he let her drag him; he could always come back to this odd place, if he could convince her to. Meanwhile, he had a DMA to crash.

“How is it you step into this place so easily?” he asked, as she led him through a copse of dry, dying fir trees.

“I just do.”

Why had he expected to get anything like a real answer from her? Oh well. Perhaps her voices might slip up and tell him.

He blinked, and the red heat was gone. Mercifully, Corwin released his hand, and he found himself confronted with what appeared to be a conference room decorated by astronomers on drugs. Lots of drugs.

It was filled with people, too – some demonstrably scientists, but the rest ran the gamut. Two businessmen in Armani, a group of punks who could have stepped straight out of the early 1980’s, a flannel clad lot who could easily pass for loggers…it was no wonder they have never successfully caught him. They were all insane.

“God _dammit_ , Sharley!” This from a blonde, muscular woman near as tall as him. “ _Stop doing that._ ” Her hectic blue eyes flicked to him, wary and assessing. “Who’s this?” Though they had hunted him for decades, no one still alive in the DMA knew what he looked like.

“Von Ratched,” Corwin said blandly. “I think I can do something with that ring, but I need him for fuel.

“Thank you,” he said, just as blandly, but he was already sifting Miranda’s mind, seeking all that could be found about the DMA itself –

Corwin slapped him on the back of his head. Hard. “Stop that,” she ordered.

“Do that I again and I will break your neck,” he said, with deceptive mildness.

 _“As if that would do anything,”_ the voice he knew as Jimmy said, with a snort.

“It would hurt,” Von Ratched countered.

 _“Actually, no it wouldn’t,”_ Layla said. _“One of the good things about being dead is not being able to feel pain.”_

“Do you guys mind shutting up?” Corwin said. “ _Anyway._ Von Ratched, don’t you dare. You’re not staying _that_ long anyway.

“Why is he here _now_?” the blonde woman – Miranda – demanded. “You couldn’t have found someone else?” She was still regarding him with a wariness that was only healthy, given that she knew who he was.

“If you really want this ring, there is – _stop_ that.” She didn’t actually slap Von Ratched, but she looked like she wanted to.

“And how do you know what I am doing?” he asked, rather acerbically.

“I’m not stupid,” she said, glowering at him. “ Miranda, I’ll have him outta here as soon as he’s supposed to go.”

“That would be great, if not for the part where I’m sure he knows how to get back in here,” Miranda said.

“Let me deal with that,” Corwin said, with an unsettling amount of confidence.

Von Ratched was relatively certain he could still read her mind, dead or alive. It hadn’t been easy when she’d been alive, but it was possible. “I would very much like to see you try,” he said.

 _“No,”_ Jimmy said. _“No, you wouldn’t. But you’re probably gonna.”_

“Shall we get this over with?” Von Ratched asked, ignoring him.

“We might as well. C’mon, Vonny,” Corwin said, with the barest trace of a smirk. “You get to be gasoline.”

\--

News traveled fast through the DMA – even along the line of near chaos that was the healing wards. Thranduil had only heard the name ‘Von Ratched’ once, and attached no personal significance to it. The Edain of the DMA, however, were all but paralyzed by it.

He was translating for Elrond when the news came – two Edain healers were watching Elrond work over another burn victim. Both of them paled, and he could all but _taste_ their fear.

The bearer of this news was a woman who looked startlingly like Mairead, out-of-breath and visibly terrified. “Sharley brought him,” she gasped. “She thinks she can control him.”

Thranduil translated this for Elrond, who said, “From what little I have seen of Sharley, I suspect there is little she could _not_ control. All she would need to do is touch someone, and they would be so overcome with horror they could not think. I do not know what she is, but I would sooner touch a wight.”

Thranduil dutifully translated it back, but it did not seem to comfort the Edain at all. “Would it help if I spoke to him?” he asked. He was terribly curious about this person, the man who could send such powerful people faint of heart.

“You have to,” she said. “That’s why Sharley brought him. I don’t think he can do anything to you, since you aren’t human. I hope, anyway.”

Well, that was it. He could leave Elrond to his own devices for a time – the other healers knew who he was now, and would let him get on with it. This Von Ratched evidently had to be seen to be believed.

He followed the woman through the crowd, dodging stretchers and healers. She didn’t turn to look at him while she spoke.

“Von Ratched’s a telepath, which probably won’t affect you, but his telekinesis _can_ ,” she said.

“He is like my wife, then,” Thranduil said.

The woman skidded to a halt so fast he nearly ran into her. She turned to him, her dark eyes wide. “Your wife is a telepath? _Shit_. No matter what, he _can’t_ know she’s here.”

“She is not here,” he said, abruptly glad of Lorna’s stubbornness. She was foolhardy enough that she might pit herself against this man, just to see if she could. She shouldn’t know _he_ was here, either.

His guide started off again, leading him through the packed labyrinth with ease. Elven memories were perfect, but he had a feeling it was going to take him a while to memorize this place.

At least she took him somewhere familiar – the room that looked on those beautiful trees. It held only two people now: Sharley, and a man who must be Von Ratched.

Looking at him, Thranduil could see why an Edain would be terrified of him. Physically he was extremely imposing, and his eyes were perhaps the most unsettling Thranduil had ever seen, but the sheer level of _power_ the man radiated gave even him pause. He had seen a few rather strong Gifted here, but none of them had anything on Von Ratched. He almost certainly wasn’t fully Edain; like Lorna, he must have an Eldar ancestor somewhere in his very distant past.

Sharley didn’t look terribly impressed, but Thranduil doubted there was much in this world that could impress her – and indeed, when Von Ratched bent that unnerving stare on him, she slapped the man upside the head.

“ _Stop that_ ,” she said, utterly unmoved by his glare.

“I have not done anything,” he said, with just a tinge of acid.

“You were about to. Thranduil, Von Ratched. Von Ratched, Thranduil. No, Von Ratched, Thranduil’s not human, and that’s all you need to know. Shut up,” she added, glowering at him.

“I would very much like to see you make me,” he said, his tone and posture reeking of arrogance.

Quite honestly, so would Thranduil. He still had little idea what Sharley could actually do, and he was morbidly curious.

“Keep it up and you’ll find out,” she said sourly. “Come here, Thranduil. I don’t have any magic myself, but in theory I can act as a conduit between you two, the ring, and the Trees.”

“Will that not hurt you?” Thranduil asked.

“Don’t I wish. Put this on, and gimme a second.” She tossed the ring at Thranduil, who caught it deftly, and went to fetch a long black cable. “Okay, one of you has to touch my hand, and the other one’s gotta grab my wrist. And Von Ratched,” she added, her voice and her eyes so frigid even Thranduil almost shivered, “if you try to fuck with this, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

He didn’t look unduly threatened, until she said, “I’ll let the Stranger deal with you.” _Then_ he paled, just a fraction, and Thranduil suspected it was only sheer force of will that kept him from shuddering. Whatever the Stranger was, Thranduil thought he wouldn’t want to meet it, either.

He grit his teeth, and held out his hand. Touching Sharley really was horrific, but if it got him his ring, he would endure it.

She took his hand, the cable in her other, and gave Von Ratched a pointed look. The man took her wrist with a slight grimace –

Something jolted through Thranduil, something he had never felt in all his six thousand years. It seared, yet it didn’t hurt. It was power, and more than power – the great, thundering heartbeat of the earth, of the magic that lived within it. It shuddered through him, through every fiber of his being, so huge and incomprehensible he thought it might consume him whole. The ring on his finger burned, and he felt its power, _his_ power, swell into a wave as great as that which had destroyed Númenor.

How long it went on, he didn’t know; it might have been minutes or hours. He felt Sharley release his hand, but his awareness was slow to return.

The renewed strength of Nenya pulsed through his hand, as though the ring had a heartbeat of its own. Was this what it had felt like, when Galadriel wore it? It was almost dizzying, a heady rush that was strangely sensual –

Something slapped him in the back of the head, hard.

“Save it for your wife,” Sharley said – and slapped Von Ratched, too. “ _Stop that_.”

Von Ratched, it would appear, had had enough. He grabbed Sharley’s arm and twisted it, but there was no crack of breaking bone, and her expression didn’t change.

“Done yet?” she asked. “I thought you were a doctor. Dead things don’t hurt.” She wrenched her arm away. “You can’t touch his mind, Von Ratched. Bad things’ll happen if you do.”

“What sort of things?” Thranduil asked, eying his ring.

“Bad ones,” she said flatly. She paused, and when he looked up, she appeared to be listening to something. “Yeah, I _know_ ,” she said, and sighed. It had to be lingering habit, since she didn’t breathe. “Von Ratched, you _are_ a doctor, and we need all the help we can get right now. You should go to the hospital.”

“Should?” he asked, with the barest quirk of an eyebrow. “You will not force me?”

“Dragging you here is the only time I’ve ever _forced_ anyone to do anything. You can stay, or you can go – the only thing you _can’t_ do is leave.”

“That,” he pointed out, “is also force. Why do you think I must stay?”

“Because if you leave, you’ll die,” she said. “There’s three potentialities, and you die in all of them. And, while that would make a lotta people very happy, you can’t die just yet. You’ve got too much more to do.”

That sobered the man, and he watched her with barely-concealed wariness. Thranduil didn’t blame him; such a statement would make anyone uneasy.

“Quit trying to read his mind,” she added. “You don’t want the Stranger any more than I do.”

“What makes you think I will not read the minds of everyone in the hospital?”

Sharley smiled. It was not at all a nice smile. “Because I’m going with you.”

\--

Lorna was distracting the twins with a feather when she felt it – a massive, shuddering surge of _something_ , something unlike anything she had ever known.

She actually fell off the bed, landing elbow-first on the stone floor, and swore like a sailor. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if at least one of the twins’ first word was a curse.

“All right, you two, what was that?” she asked, hauling herself back up onto the bed. Whatever it had been, it was like a punch straight to the brain, so shockingly intense it left her dizzy. She flopped on the bed, shutting her eyes, focusing on the soft velvet of the covers beneath her cheek.

If that hadn’t come from the DMA, she’d eat her own foot. Somebody ought to go see what the hell it had been, but even if she hadn’t insisted on her three days, she doubted she could walk that far. Hell, at the moment she wasn’t sure she could even stand.

“Thranduil, if you broke something, I swear I’ll skin you,” she mumbled into the bed. It probably wasn’t his fault, yet she wouldn’t be surprised if it was. When he fucked up, he tended, it seemed, to do it on a fairly epic scale.

She sighed, and stretched out on the bedcovers. Walking wasn’t to be thought of, but maybe…Thranduil had put a block on her mind, to prevent any outside thoughts getting _in_ , but could she still get a few _out_?

She drew a deep breath, inhaling the rich Thranduil-scent that permeated the blanket, wishing she had any idea where to begin. How was she to send her own mind searching? Could she even reach Thranduil, if he was too far away? The DMA was huge, and he could be anywhere.

Drawing another breath, she focused on the thought of him – the scent and feel of him, the paradox of sweetness and creepiness that seemed to make up so much of who he was. He was ancient, his time among her people bittersweet, since by his reckoning every one of them would die far too soon.

Would that be as terrible, now that magic was loose in the world? He would still lose them all, but he need not stay alone and hidden. Now, with everything, he would have more than just the village’s descendants, wouldn’t have just their children, should the twins choose to be Elves.

He wasn’t alone even now, but was he in danger? _Talk to me, Thranduil_ , she thought. _Tell me you’re okay._

It was fruitless, as she’d known it would be. If these Gifts came with an owner’s manual, Ireland wouldn’t be falling apart, but she tried anyway. It was all she could do. Her consciousness skipped over thousands of others like a rock across water, a radio seeking a signal it could not find—

_Who are you?_

Lorna stopped short. It wasn’t Thranduil’s voice – it was male, but American.

 _Who are_ you _?_ she asked. _Are you a telepath?_ She couldn’t imagine he could be anything else, but she had no idea how many Gifts were out there.

 _Yes_ , he said. _I did not know there was another_. There was something in his tone, a curiosity she didn’t at all like, and memory tugged at her – Sveta had said there was only one other known telepath, and that she wouldn’t want to meet him. Ever.

_Fuck._

_Nice talking to you, gotta go._

She opened her eyes, sitting up with a start. What in flying fuck? Admittedly, she hadn’t heard much at all about this person, but he didn’t sound at all the sort the DMA would voluntarily let in. Was whatever had happened his fault Was there some kind of new crisis, on top of everything else?

Even if there was, what in hell could _she_ do about it? She was one person, with a Gift of unknown strength or weakness, that she didn’t know how to use anyway.

But Thranduil wouldn’t leave her, if their positions were reversed – he’d tear the DMA apart to find her. She wouldn’t do anything quite that drastic even if she was able, but she couldn’t let something nasty have a go at him without her help.

“So much for my three days,” she grumbled, climbing off the bed. Her balance was unsteady, but she didn’t think she’d fall. “All right, you two. You’re going to spend a bit’v time with Uncle Jamie.” He wouldn’t question her to death, as Mairead would. “Let’s get this over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many people are going to regret Von Ratched’s involvement, but Sharley knows why he has to be. Keep in mind, what she sees is what is, what was, what might be, and _what might have been._ She knows how badly time has been thrown off-course, and she knows how crucial a part he would have played, in what might have been. 
> 
> (She really is quite peeved with Thranduil right now – especially since she knows all the things he might do, now that he has Nenya.) Being Sharley kind of sucks, because she doesn’t dare try to direct the course of the future very much. It’s never ended well when she has, so she mostly just has to sit and watch. She has a lot of power she really can’t use. 
> 
> While she’s in the Other, there are several bits from _Sanitarium_. She makes Von Ratched nervous for a reason. 
> 
> As for Thranduil and his ring…oh man. Next chapter, you will see why he thought there was a reason he hadn’t been given Nenya until its power was heavily drained.
> 
> Title means “Human gasoline” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with light and hope.


	36. Dia Cabhair Gach duine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna meets Von Ratched (which does not go well), Elrond discovers Thranduil has children (and achieves vapor-lock of the brain), and Lorna and Thranduil have a wedding (which he is not _at all_ ready for).
> 
> This chapter is also really, really long, and would have been longer, if I hadn’t decided to save the Thranduil-and-Nenya issue for the next chapter. This one’s twenty pages as it is.

Von Ratched had been cataloging the Gifts of all he worked on, but he could do little more than that, for Sharley dogged his heels like an undead shadow, and proved more than willing to slap him upside the head each time he tried to read a mind. How she knew what he was doing, he didn’t know, but he wished he could strangle her. The only reason he didn’t find it humiliating was because she really was quite terrifying to the average person.

And then he found _her_ – or she found him.

He had as yet felt no telepaths within the DMA itself; she had to be somewhere further away, but not _too_ far, or she wouldn’t have found him, even by accident.

Even as he tied bandages, he tried to follow her retreat, to trace her thoughts back to their source, but somehow he failed. Someone or something was interfering.

He glanced at Sharley, but it could not be her. She was many things, but a telepath she was not. One of these Elves, perhaps? They were a completely unknown quantity, and such was their air of power that he would be wary of searching one’s mind even without Sharley breathing – so to speak – down his neck.

He said nothing of it yet, but it gave him something rather more pleasant to think on while he worked. Sharley might think she controlled him, but he knew he was smarter than she was. He could not directly take this telepath with him when he left, but he could plant a seed in her mind, and induce her to follow him in a day or two.

And if Sharley meddled with him again…she was powerful, but she was also deeply unstable. There had to be some way of drivin her mad without waking the Stranger, and he would find it. Whatever she was now, she had been human once.

So he worked, and pondered. What the Elves were doing was certainly more than interesting enough to keep him occupied, though he rarely saw it up close; Sharley, damn her, kept him busy on his own.

It had been a very long time since he worked under such conditions – this reminded him starkly of the First World War, the hospitals crowded with wounded soldiers shipped back from the front. He had understood saving them then no more than he did now. Everyone died, sooner or later, and those too badly wounded were of use to no one.

Still, few died under his care. He had his professional pride to maintain, if nothing else, and it was that which made him bother now.

Even so, he was growing almost bored, until he felt _her_ arrive. He paused, scanning the crowd for her, but he didn’t actually see her until she stepped up beside Thranduil.

Her physical appearance was almost a disappointment – she was a tiny creature, with a mane of black, grey-streaked hair quite at odds with her youthful face. Power such as hers should not come with such prosaic housing.

He was quite surprised when Sharley didn’t try to stop him moving toward her. A glance at the woman showed only resignation – she had knowin this might happen, and was letting it play out.

He probably ought to be worried by that.

Worry could wait, however, because here was this tiny woman, this telepath who could not possibly know her own strength, evidently quite close with Thranduil, if her body language was any indication. Personal attachment made for such wonderful leverage, if necessary.

Von Ratched reached for her mind again, not caring if Sharley struck him for it – and was very, very surprised at the utterly impenetrable wall he found. There was simply no way the thing was her own construction; she’d had outside help, and very strong help at that.

His gaze traveled to the Elves. As yet, he knew too little about them, what they could and couldn’t do.

“Why, precisely, did you think that was _my_ fault?” Thranduil asked the woman.

“Because it usually is,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “What _was_ that?”

“Something will tell you about it in detail, when I have the time. Obviously, I do not now.” He waved a hand at the general mayhem. “If you have a strong stomach, Firieth Dithen, we could use your help. You can begin your three days over again, at a more convenient time.”

Firieth Dithen…that sounded more like a nickname than a real one. Von Ratched worked his way past four harried orderlies, coming up beside her. “You did not speak to me long enough to give me your name,” he said. “I see you found what you were searching for.”

She looked up at him, twitching slightly. “Well, _fuck_.”

\--

Lorna had really, really hoped she wouldn’t run into this son of a bitch. The DMA was so large and so crowded that she’d been sure her odds were low, but apparently luck still wasn’t on her side. Shit.

Now she was confronted with this man, this Von Ratched, who was easily the most intimidating human she had ever met. Had she not been somewhat inured to imposing people by Thranduil, she would have found him terrifying – and even as it was, he creeped her right the fuck out. She’d thought Thranduil’s eyes were unsettling, but Von Ratched’s were much worse. Thranduil was an Elf – it was only natural that his eyes would be otherworldly, since everything else about him was. Von Ratched, however, was human, yet he had the palest eyes she had ever seen – and worse, when he looked a certain way, they caught the light like an animal’s. He might as well have had ‘predator’ tattooed across his forehead.

Twat.

“Yeah, well, you weren’t who I was looking for,” she said, planting herself firmly between him and Thranduil. “I was hunting this eejit, and I’m not through giving out at him, so excuse me.” She didn’t turn away from him, though; instinct told her he was not a person she wanted at her back.

She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t leave, and she didn’t like the curiosity in those ungodly eyes – he looked like he’d found and unexpected present under the tree at Christmas.

Thranduil laid a hand on her right shoulder. She didn’t shrug it off, though she knew she ought to – looking like she needed aid in front of this son of a bitch was probably not a good idea. Those pale eyes flicked form the hand, to her, to Thranduil, and a trace of amusement entered them.

“I see,” he said. “I would have a word with you and your husband later.”

“Yeah, let me think about that…um, _no_ ,” Lorna said. “Go be useful somewhere that isn’t here.”

She’d expected that to irritate him, but he remained entirely calm, still watching her. She felt – something very odd was going on inside her head, a sensation very like an itch, such as she had never felt before –

The tall, blue-haired woman – Sharley – popped up behind him seemingly out of nowhere, and slapped Von Ratched upside the head. “ _Stop that_.”

“Corwin, sooner or later I will rip your head off and use it as a football,” he said, with deceptive mildness. “The fact that it will not kill you will only make it better.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Sharley said. “Quit trying to get in her head. It won’t work anyway.”

“You _what_?” Lorna demanded. She couldn’t say she was _surprised_ , but still. “What the hell right d’you think you have, going through people’s heads? Who died and made you God, a bhastaird bhreallghnúisisgh? I ought to bite your bloody kneecaps off!” God, if not for Thranduil’s barrier…her skin was actually crawling, which she hadn’t thought was possible in real life.

Thranduil hadn’t learned much in the way of Irish yet, but he did know some curses, and he snorted. “You have such an expressive language, Firieth Dithen,” he said, drawing her back until her shoulders touched his chest. 

“Yeah, well, I try,” she growled. “Sharley, is he going away soon?”

“Not just yet,” Sharley said. “He’ll go when it’s time.” Sharley was, in her own way, harder to read than Thranduil, but she didn’t seem happy. If she didn’t want him here, why was she _keeping_ him?

“Thranduil,” Lorna said, still not turning, “the three days can wait.” While she doubted there was anything Von Ratched could do to him, she still didn’t want him out of her sight. The twins were away and safe, outside of the DMA, but Thranduil…she couldn’t leave him. Realistically, he probably didn’t actually need her help; that he’d lived six thousand years was testament to his ability to take care of himself, yet every instinct she possessed told her to stick to him like glue. Since trusting her gut was the only reason she’d survived her adolescence, she’d better trust it now. Thranduil was hers, goddammit, and no human was getting to him – not even one as creepy as Von Ratched. She might not bite the bastard’s kneecaps off, but she wouldn’t be averse to breaking them.

She looked at Sharley, and she would swear the dead woman smiled, just a little.

“C’mon, Vonny,” Sharley said. “Daylight’s burning somewhere.”

The fact that he went so easily left Lorna deeply suspicious.

\--

Thranduil had felt his hackles rise the moment he met Von Ratched, but now, with the power of Nenya coursing through him, it was exponentially worse. Mortal the man might be, but there was a level of cunning in his eyes worthy of Fëanor. Lorna shouldn’t be anywhere near him, though Thranduil knew she would only be offended if he told her so. Thank Eru he’d built her that shield.

“I do not supposed there is any chance you would care to return to the caverns, and resume our three days?” he asked, looking down at her.

“Hell no,” she said. “I don’t trust that fucker at all. I’m not leaving you alone.”

“I was afraid of that,” he sighed. “Very well. Stay near me, Firieth Dithen. I do not trust Sharley to keep a leash on that man.”

“Me neither,” Lorna said grimly. “I hope she gets rid’v him soon.”

Why she hadn’t yet, Thranduil didn’t know, and he hesitated to ask. Sharley was an unknown, and he would prefer _she_ went away as well.

He glanced at Elrond and his family. While they would not have understood a word, they would have seen Von Ratched for the threat he was. The entire lot of them were capable warriors, though perhaps Celebrían no longer had a taste for it, but not against some of the things in this world as it was now.

But he could not worry about it now – they simply didn’t have the time. Eru knew how many more wounded would be brought to them. Until that was dealt with, there would be no opportunity for anything else.

\--

It was fortunate for all the Gifted that the normal world was so very skeptical. There were those who believed the evidence of their eyes, but most did not. After all, everyone knew magic wasn’t real.

The storm slowly dissipated, as did the fires and floods. No one knew why, and few cared. They had lives to resume, property to repair. Life went on.

If only everyone thought that way.

Certain elements of the government had been aware of powers and people they could not yet identify. None used the term ‘magic’, for that, after all, was ridiculous, but it was _something_ , and it was real. And it was very much a threat.

Actually _catching_ one of these people was proving difficult, for it seemed impossible to get close enough, but their numbers were dwindling fast. Either this was temporary, or someone was getting to them first.

The theory that the epicenter was Lasgaelen was not without merit. Something had been going on there before all this started. Thus far, all who had been sent there had come back with their memory in pieces, or not come back at all.

Until now, they had sent only small reconnaissance missions. They would see what might be done with an armed task force; the country was in such shambles that it would not be noticed as it might have been otherwise.

Whatever lurked in Lasgaelen, they would find it. And if they could not capture it, they would kill it.

\--

It was a full four days before Lorna, Thranduil, and Team Elrond (as she called them) made it home.

The DMA was stuffed far past capacity, and there was still much to be done, but Miranda had taken one look at them and ordered them to go rest. Given how terribly Lorna missed the twins, she didn’t protest.

She and Team Elrond were knackered, but Thranduil…Lorna didn’t know what to make of Thranduil.

Whatever that ring was, it gave him a kind of vitality he hadn’t had before. He had always been what she considered unnaturally alert, but there was a light in his arctic eyes she had never seen before, and she didn’t know what to make of it now.

He also seemed to be unable to stop touching her. While he was comfortable being affectionate in front of the villagers, these were a load of strangers. He wasn’t _groping_ her or anything, and his touches lacked the possessiveness she hated so much, but they were nearly constant. If one of his hands wasn’t on her back or her shoulder, his was running his fingers over hair. She wondered if he did it to remind himself that she was there, absurd as it sounded. He seemed to have a pathological need to keep her as close as he could, yet at the same time not smother her.

She wished she had a way to ask Elrond or his family about it, but the communication barrier was still firmly in place. All she knew was what she saw – and felt – for herself.

Thranduil’s body temperature had always run slightly cooler than hers, but his hands were now noticeably warm. Elves didn’t get fevers, so what gave? Just what was this ring _doing_ to him? It had been made by Elves, so it couldn’t be anything evil, but it was still worrying.

His arm was around her shoulders now as they walked, keeping her close. Given how possessive he’d been before she issued her ultimatum, she was totally baffled by the lack of it now. Not that she was _complaining_ , but it was still weird. It wasn’t possessive, it wasn’t clingy…something had shifted in him, and she cautiously liked it.

She wanted her wedding, and she was going to get it, even if there couldn’t be anything like a wedding feast – and she wanted her wedding night, since God only knew when they’d get another chance. She’d snagged a load of condoms from a nursing station – a load, because she’d never actually used one, and was going to have to experiment with how to put one on over a cucumber or something.

But first she needed to see her children, and they had to get Elrond and his family settled. Celebrían, that was his wife’s name, but since she couldn’t tell the twins apart, their names didn’t stick as well in her brain. That would have to change eventually, even if she didn’t yet know how.

\--

Thranduil’s caverns, Elrond noted, had not change at all – though it was strange to see them so empty. It was like stepping backward in time, and it caught him surprisingly off-guard. Though not nearly as off-guard as the scores of Edain in the dining hall.

They were dressed in the same manner as those in the DMA, but naturally were far more relaxed. Lorna, visibly weary though she was, hurried to a table containing two baskets – and two _babies_.

Oh, dear Eru. Thranduil had spawned.

Elrond’s steps faltered, but Celebrían followed Lorna, eagerly picking up one of the babies. Motherhood knew no linguistic barriers.

His own twins halted a moment, and then they too were off to see Thranduil’s children.

Thranduil’s. Children. Elrond’s mind refused to comprehend it.

Eventually, his feet carried him to the table as well. The children had their father’s hair, and their mother’s eyes, and there were two of them. Two miniature Thranduils.

Eru help them all.

“They are adorable,” Celebrían said. “Thranduil says Lorna had to have her womb cut open to remove them, and that they were born three months before their time. Ennor’s medicine now truly is a wonder.”

Elrond, still stuck on the idea that _Thranduil_ had _children_ , could only stare at the baby. It stared right back.

“Their Edain names are Saoirse and Shane,” Celebrían went on, seemingly oblivious to his mental state. “They do not yet have their Eldar names, for Lorna does not speak Sindarin.”

“A problem I intend to rectify, when I have time,” Thranduil put in. “Eru knows when that will be. Lorna insists we have a wedding in the fashion of her people, before we do anything else. Given what I _know_ of her people, I suspect I should be worried.”

This really was a bit too much for Elrond, but he wouldn’t let it show. At least, he was determined not to, until Thranduil added, “At least I will finally be able to take my wife to bed again in more than the literal sense.”

The twins’ wordless sounds of disgust mirrored their father’s thought’s entirely. Celebrían all but rolled her eyes.

“Thranduil, behave,” she chided. “I doubt your wife would appreciate you talking about such things.”

“Given how vulgar the Irish seem to be, I do not think she would care,” Thranduil said dryly, “but I will forebear more, lest I offend your husband’s delicate sensibilities.”

Celebrían looked at Elrond, her eyes dancing with mirth. “I believe he will survive, but we should all rest.”

“Of course you should,” Thranduil said. “I will show you to your apartments.” He said something to Lorna, who gave the four of them a wave, and led them away. If Elrond remembered correctly, the nobility had their own bathing quarters, and he desperately needed a bath. And a drink. Several drinks.

\--

Lorna felt rather bad for Lord Elrond, who surely didn’t deserve whatever Thranduil was doing to him. At least his wife didn’t look fazed in the least.

Lorna herself went and corralled Mairead, who looked wildly curious. “I need a wedding, and I need it by tomorrow. Gran’s got the dress, and I know we’ve got loads’v snack food. I’m pretty sure Thranduil’s got enough booze to drown an army, too.”

Mairead stared at her. “Isn’t this a bit…rushed?”

“I don’t know when we’ll get another chance,” Lorna said. “I wouldn’t want a big wedding anyway, and all the guests I’d want are already here.”

“We’ve not got a priest,” Mairead protested.

“Let Gran do it. I’ve already got vows planned."

Mairead pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh, no.” She did, after all, know her little sister; she had to have a guess as to how warped those vows would be. And oh, did Lorna have plans. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Kevin and Big Jamie seem to’ve worked out the stoves, but we’ve not got eggs for the cake.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lorna said. “I just need the vows and the booze, and somebody to watch the twins after.”

“After…? Oh.” Mairead’s face went about the same shade of red as her hair. God was she a prude. “All right,” she said, “but I hope Lord Thranduil knows what he’s in for.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Lorna said, grinning. “That’s half the fun.”

“God help us all,” Mairead muttered.

\--

Bridie was not at all put out by the idea of a wedding, since it would _finally_ make an honest woman out of her granddaughter. It wouldn’t take terribly much effort, since a wedding in Lasgaelen was mostly food and drunkenness and occasional arson. (Her own wedding had certainly been an event worth remembering. Mairead’s was, too, though she seemed to have forgot – possibly deliberately. Given that her brother-in-law wee’d in the baptismal font, Bridie really couldn’t blame her.)

There was the dress already, and she hadn’t lived through the Second World War without learning how to make a cake without eggs. Bit Jamie had brought beer and liquor aplenty, and Bridie knew of four musicians of various skill. What more did a wedding need? Thank God the dress finally no longer stank of moth balls – although by this point, the white of it was a bit inappropriate.

Oh well. Not that Bridie had ever told anyone, but it had been inappropriate in her case, too.

\--

When Thranduil finally made it to his room, he found Lorna already dead asleep, the twins safe in their bassinet.

He looked at Nenya, glittering on his hand. The ring’s power still felt very strange, being so new; he wondered if this was how Galadriel had felt all the time.

He ought to take it off, lest it get caught in Lorna’s hair, but he found he couldn’t do it. So long as it was on his finger, he always knew where it was. He stripped off everything but it and his trousers, wrapping his arm around Lorna. For some reason, he needed her close, though he couldn’t say why; some gut instinct didn’t want her out of his sight for long, even here. He lay long awake, listening to her breathe in the dark, her heartbeat steady beneath his hand.

_When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of Eire. Not its chaotic present, but a time now very long past, when all the island was his own, and his people walked it freely._

_He dreamt of Anameleth, now lost to him forever, and of Legolas, who might as well be. He dreamt of the village, of all its Diaspora home and safe in his halls. By now, with all their descendants, there had to be many hundreds of them._

_The future loomed ahead, unknown; he stood upon an empty plane, beneath a black, starless sky. He was waiting for something, though he did not yet know what._

_The scene shifted, as dreams were wont to do, and he found himself in a vast, wild garden, bathed silver-bright in the moonlight. Before him was a great sea of lavender, rustled by a faint, sighing breeze, ending in a distant lake smooth as glass._

_“You have made a mess of things, little Thranduil, yet it may be for the best.”_

_He turned, and found himself faced with a woman a good eight feet tall, neither young nor old. Her skin was several shades darker than Lorna’s, her long black hair wispy as lichen, but her eyes – she had no eyes, only sockets filled with the night sky._

_No Vala that he knew of looked like her, yet she radiated a level of power that could rival one. Who – or what – was she?_

_“I am not a Vala, little Thranduil,” she said. “The Gifted, when they speak to me, call me the Lady. You have begun my work too early.”_

_“What do you mean?” he asked, unable to look away from the universe in her eyes._

_“It was to be another four years before I returned magic to your world,” she said, advancing upon him. “Now that it has begun in Eire, it will spread before its time. I cannot halt it without causing great damage.”_

_“It causes great damage now,” he said dryly._

_“It is concentrated. There are more new Gifted in one place than there ought to be – and now you have your ring.” She touched his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. Her hand was warm, skin smooth as velvet. “Be wary of that ring, little Thranduil. It was made to protect, but there is such a thing as taking protection too far. But I believe you know this already.”_

_“I do.” And he really did – and he could see how one could get drunk on this sort of power._

_“Wed your wife in her manner, little Thranduil,” the Lady said, releasing his chin. “In giving her those twins, you have spared her a terrible fate. Keep her close.”_

_“I must protect her?” he asked, though it was only half a question._

_“She must protect_ you. _But of that I will say no more – not yet. Sleep well, little Thranduil. Things may grow very dark in future, but I will be with you.”_

\--

When Lorna woke the next morning, she was so comfortable she didn’t even want to think about moving.

Thranduil was plastered against her back, arm slung over her waist, dead to the world. With some difficulty, she turned, looking at him, and shivered. Asleep, he looked _actually_ dead, his pale eyes fixed and staring at nothing.

She might as well let him sleep a while yet, but she needed a bath. Squirming out of his grasp was difficult, and she fell off the edge of the bed once she had.

Dammit.

The twins, she found, were both still asleep, and thank God _they_ slept with their eyes closed. Otherwise she’d die of heart failure every time she checked on them.

She padded into the bathroom, hoping Thranduil had thought to light the boiler last night, or she’d have to head to the bathing-pools, Door and all.

The tub was big enough to almost classify as a small pool, and so deep she’d drown if she filled it all the way. Fortunately, a test of the water found it just above lukewarm, which was good enough to be getting on with.

She was getting _married_. Properly married, not just ‘we-shagged-now-we’re-husband-and-wife’ married. Her wedding with Liam had been the two of them and a courthouse – they’d intended to have a proper ceremony once she found out she was up the yard.

It was a good thing the water wasn’t very warm, because it meant she wasn’t tempted to linger. A good scrub and shampoo, and then she went to stoke the fire so she could try to get her hair something like dry.

Should she try makeup? She’d experimented a bit with Mairead’s, but her coloring was all wrong for it. The one time she’d tried mascara, she’d poked herself in the eye. Maybe not such a great idea. The dress would have to be enough – though the irony of the white wasn’t lost on her.

The twins woke while she brushed her hair, and she paused to change their diapers and feeding-tubes. Thranduil slept on, apparently more exhausted than she’d thought. He could sleep right up until wedding-time, if he wanted. God knew he’d earned it – she’d mostly done a lot of fetching and carrying, drinking tea or coffee whenever it was available.

She did feel a bit guilty for leaving them all to it, but she’d been so dead on her feet she was more liability than help. After she had this day – and this night – she could get back to work, and hope Sharley would get rid of von Ratched in the meantime. She’d like to be able to bring the twins when she went back to work, but no way in hell was that happening until the bastard was gone.

“It is cold in here without you,” Thranduil mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep.

“So come over here. I’ve got to get my hair dry, so I can’t go anywhere.”

He rose, shrugging into a heavy robe of burgundy velvet. The only time she ever saw his hair mussed was when he first woke, and it was oddly adorable.

“Exactly how terrified should I be?” he asked, sitting beside her. 

“Not _that_ terrified. We don’t sacrifice goats or anything,” she said. “Have you got your vows ready?”

He gave her a look that was so wicked it made her nervous. “Of course I do. I believe you will enjoy them.”

“I’m scared.”

“You should be.”

“You’re a little shit, you know that?” she said. “Oh, so long as we’ve got time, I’d best demonstrate a condom, if I can find something to use one on.” She hauled herself to her feet, fishing one of the crinkling packets out of the pocket of her coat, and grabbed a half-used candle.

“All right, I’ve not actually done this before, but I know the principle,” she said, sitting back beside him. She tried not to smirk at his bemusement.

“Okay, this is your todger,” she went on, holding the candle bottom-side up and ripping the package open with her teeth. “This rubber thing goes over – here, old this. I need both hands.”

He took the candle, looking rather as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“All right, so in theory you start here, and just – shit.” When she tried to roll it down, the rubber tore like tissue-paper. Just how effective could they actually be? “Okay, start over.” She ripped open another package, hoping she didn’t destroy them all before tonight.

“That goes –” Thranduil was apparently too horrified to finish the sentence. Incredibly, there was a very faint _blush_ on his face.

“That’s the theory,” Lorna said, biting the inside of her cheek in a losing battle to contain her laughter. “If we don’t want any more sprogs, it’s necessary. And I for one never want to do _that_ again.”

He stared at the candle, and at her, still disbelieving. “Do I put…that…on, or do you?”

She paused. “You know, I don’t know. I’m sure blokes can put condoms on themselves. Although….” She took the candle from him and held it near her own crotch, trying so very hard not to laugh at his expression. “The angle might be awkward if you did it yourself.”

“I can honestly say this is a conversation I never, ever thought I would have,” he said dryly. “Your people _use_ these?”

“If the woman’s not on birth control, yeah. In case you hadn’t noticed, we get knocked up easily,” she said, just as dryly. “They can’t be _that_ hard,” she added, and immediately burst out laughing when she realized just what that sounded like.

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. “I think our wedding night might prove rather more complicated than I thought.”

Lorna only laughed harder. “Hush, you. All right, hold that and we’ll try again.”

Somehow, he managed to look even more appalled.

\--

Lorna, hair eventually dry, went to let her sister badger her about with her dress.

Thranduil looked at the candle, the twins, and the three torn condoms on the floor. He did not foresee _that_ ending well at all.

Elves were not, as a rule, highly sexual people. After their children were born, they tended to turn their minds to other things, preferring companionship to carnality. He, though…perhaps it was because Lorna was Edain, but his mind refused to turn away. While he would have been content, were she not interested, the fact that she _was_ made him quite interested, too. Ellon tended to take their cue from their wives – which might be why Fëanor had seven children. Nerdanel might not have been as fiery as he was, but she was quite stubborn.

Lorna had looked on his scar, and kissed him anyway. She’d touched it without revulsion. Yes, he wanted her – oh, how he wanted her.

But he had to figure these blasted things out first.

\--

Together, Mairead and Gran managed to get Lorna into her wedding dress. It fit surprisingly well, considering it hadn’t been fitted, and the smooth lines of the ivory silk meant she wasn’t lost in it, as she would have been in a more modern gown.

“I feel like an idiot,” Lorna said, while Gran affixed a very old lace veil to her hair.

“You look lovely,” Gran said, though Mairead wasn’t sure ‘lovely’ was quite the word she’d use. She thought her little sister more like adorable, in a slightly scary way. “Have you got your vows?”

“Oh, I do,” Lorna said, and her tone boded no good for anyone, least of all Lord Thranduil. “What I _haven’t_ got are anything like decent shoes, so these’ll have to do.” She hiked up her skirt to reveal a pair of fuzzy, tie-dyed slippers.

Mairead groaned, but there was nothing for it. Her feet were too small to borrow shoes off anyone else. “Just don’t pick your skirt up when you dance,” she said. “Or kick a foot out and send one flying.”

“That’d be worth a picture,” Gran said with a snort. “There. Don’t spill anything on that dress – it’s older than I am.”

“So no pressure,” Lorna muttered, running her hands over the fabric. “Where the hell did your mam find silk like this?”

“It got stolen from England,” Gran said blithely.

“So theft runs in the family,” Lorna said, eying the dress. “I’ve got an excuse after all. Is everything all right in the hall? Nothing’s burned down?”

“It’s all grand, you little eejit,” Mairead said. “Go one, before you get cold feet.”

“My feet are nice and toasty,” Lorna retorted. “Even if I still can’t get a condom on a candle.”

Mairead felt her face heat, but Gran burst out laughing. “You’d best figure that out, if you don’t want more little ones.”

“I grabbed a load’v them, because I knew I’d be pants at it – Mairead, if you blush any harder, your face will match your hair.”

“Shut it, you,” Mairead sighed. “Go on, before I shove you.”

“Should’ve worn roller-skates,” Lorna mused, heading carefully for the door.

“God help us all,” Mairead muttered.

\--

Lorna had hoped they’d get some nibbles ready for the dinner. She hadn’t at all expected what she found.

The lot of them must have been digging through the halls the last few days, for they’d laid out a long, embroidered carpet down the center of the dining-hall, shoving the tables to the sides. Hundreds of candles were ranged along them, the normal lighting somehow turned down (how the hell had they managed _that?_ ), glittering off of – had they somehow gone and Bedazzled curtains? She wouldn’t at all put it past some of them.

As to the food…good grief. They’d gone as all-out as they could without bolloxing up the rationing. She’d wager everything that was perishable had been laid out – fruit, cheese, bread, two huge hams…the lack of proper refrigeration meant they had to eat it or let it rot.”

“Bloody Christ,” she said, when Big Jamie approached. “You’ve outdone yourselves and then some.”

“Well, we’ve got to eat it, and I can’t think’v a better occasion. You look lovely, by the way.”

“I feel like a berk. I’ve got everything ready on my end’v things, at least. I just wish I had a ring to give.” Granted, he had that great shiny thing already, but still.

“Worry about that later,” he said. “I’ll get everyone seated, and your Gran will be here when she’ll be here. Is Lord Thranduil ready?”

“As ready as he can be,” she said, with a slight grin. “He’s got no idea what he’s really in for. Doesn’t help that we never had a practice run.”

“You’ll muddle through. Go eat something while you’ve got a chance.”

\--

It didn’t take long for Thranduil to get ready, and he grabbed the twins before heading to the dining hall, since that was likely where he had to go.

Elves – even royalty – didn’t have elaborate weddings. There was a party, but the vows themselves were exchanged in private, right before the first union. Why Edain made such a fuss, he didn’t know, but they seemed to be quite determined, so he would play along as well as he was actually able.

He had to admit, they’d given their all in decorating, in a very…Edain…way. The Eldar would have rather less sparkling, for one thing, but he couldn’t deny it was pretty. Odd, but pretty.

The entire village was seated by the time he arrived, seated on the inner side of the tables. They’d made an effort to dress up, insofar as they could; most hadn’t thought their best clothes worth hauling all the way through two miles of forest, but they had done what they were able. Bridie, tiny and stubborn, stood at the end of – where had they found this carpet? It had sat in a closet since his coronation, four thousand years before.

Mairead pounced on him, taking the twins’ baskets right out of his hands. “You go up first,” she said. “Lorna’ll follow you once you’ve reached Gran. Just repeat what Gran says, and then say whatever vows you’ve got. I don’t know what Lorna’s got in mind, but I’ll get Gran to light a candle for you.”

That, if he recalled correctly, meant that he was so doomed only Eru could save him now. “Do not worry, Mistress Mairead,” he said. “I believe I can hold my own there.”

She eyed him warily. “Why am I not surprised?” she said, though it was more statement than question. “Away with you. I’ll look after these two.” She was off before he could say anything more.

Thranduil might not know what was going on, but he certainly knew how to walk like a king, at least – head high, tread measured and even, neither too fast nor too slow, until he reached Bridie, who gave him a once-over and evidently decided he passed muster. Knowing her, she would have told him if he didn’t.

She didn’t give him any orders, so he stood still, waiting. He’d never heard the villagers so quiet before – there were a few coughs, but no speech or even whispering. Elrond and his family sat a little apart; he looked disturbed; the twins, curious; and Celebrían entirely delighted.

And then Lorna appeared in the doorway, and he forgot everything.

He knew that the Edain did not see her as he did – they knew only her hröa, which, while pleasant, was not unduly remarkable for her kind, save for her eyes and decidedly lacking height. Her fëa, however…between the two, she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, an all the more so in that dress. While the fit was not entirely right, and while she didn’t seem to know how to move in it without a little awkwardness, she was beautiful. She had a bouquet of ferns in her hands, and a lace veil nearly as long as she was tall trailing down her back. And there was a worrying amount of mischief in her vivid eyes.

When she reached him, she gave him a grin that was actually a little self-conscious.

“All right, you two,” Bridie said. “It’s about bloody time. I’m no priest, but I doubt either’v you would have much use for one anyway.”

In truth, Thranduil had little idea what a priest even _was_ , so she was right enough there.

“Lord Thranduil, repeat after me: I, Thranduil, take this woman to be my _lawfully_ ” she stressed the word, quite pointedly, “wedded wife, something something, as long as we both shall live.”

Lorna wasn’t the only one who choked on a laugh, but he did as bidden anyway.

“All right, Lorna, now you.”

Eyes dancing with mirth, Lorna said, “I, Lorna, take this…Elf…to be my lawfully wedded husband, something something, as long as we both shall live.”

“Vows,” Bridie said, giving him a pointed look.

He took Lorna’s hands, heedless of the ferns. “Lorna, you are tiny, maddening, and easily the most profane person I have ever met, and I love you – even if at times I am afraid I will step on you,” he added, ignoring her glower. “I did not realize how lonely I had been until I met you – that there was a world worth seeing beyond the bounds of my forest, of walking about in daylight. So long had I isolated myself that I had little clue how far your people had come, in what to me is not much time at all.

“You asked me why I wed you in my fashion the day I met you, and I never really gave you an answer. I saw you as others, lacking my vision, cannot. You are like no one I have ever met, in all my six thousand years – I needed you to know of me, of my world, of the things I and it can give you. I did not know if you would ever return, or if you would march into my forest and strike me for getting you with child, and I count myself the most fortunate person in the world that you welcomed me instead.”

She arched an eyebrow at him, barely containing laughter.

“I know that I have my faults, that we have clashed – and possibly may still clash – over them, but I would correct them if I can. As much as I would like to carry you around in my pocket, I know that I cannot. I will protect you as best I am able, but I realize now that you are quite capable of protecting yourself. Even if your head does not reach my shoulder, Firieth Dithen.”

Lorna gave him a look that was half grin, half scowl. Such an expression should not be possible, yet somehow she managed it. “Watch it, Mister,” she said. “I’ll bite your kneecaps off.”

Bridie snorted.

“Thranduil, you’re stupidly tall, and sometimes you’re the most aggravating person I’ve ever met, but you’re also the sweetest – even if you’re occasionally creepy,” she went on, giving his fingers a squeeze. “When I came to this village, I thought I’d never really be whole again. I was content, but I can’t say I was really _happy_ until I met you – well, until I met you the second time. Up until then, I had such awful morning sickness that I wanted to strangle you more than once. Probably with your own hair, Dragh Bhanrigh Barbie.”

It took him a very, very great effort not to laugh, but somehow he managed it. While he didn’t know the language, he knew full well what she’d just called him.

“I don’t trust easily. I never have, but somehow, I trusted you right off. I’m not quite sure how you managed _that_ one, but I’m impressed. And you even stuck with me once you saw how I drive, which, yeah – that’s more than a bit impressive, too. I know the modern world’s hard for you at times, but you’ve take it in stride like a trooper, and if you think we’re all daft, you’ve managed to not say anything. I can’t imagine ever being without you now – even if you’ve got caterpillars napping on your face,” she added, running a thumb over his left eyebrow.

Somebody in the audience utterly failed to contain their laughter – it sounded very much like Big Jamie. Lorna turned her head to glare at him.

“I love you, more than I thought I’d ever love anybody, and it’s a hard thing for me to say out loud. I’m pants at telling you, and I’ll probably keep being pants at it, but know that I do, whether I say it often or not. I’m not that great at using my words, but I’ll try.”

“All right, you two, that’s enough,” Bridie said, kicking over a low stool. “Kiss your bride, Lord Thranduil, and then let’s eat.”

Lorna snorted as she stepped up onto the stool, tripping a little over the hem of her dress, and Thranduil pulled her close and kissed her – just deeply enough to make their audience uncomfortable. He’d save the rest for later.

“Good food, good meat, good God, let’s eat,” she said, when he finally let her up for air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reception has to wait for the next chapter, because this one is twenty pages and over seven thousand words long already. We’ll also see just what problems Thranduil having that ring will create. The Lady did say it was for protection, after all, and there’s going to be something quite nasty to protect everyone from.
> 
> At some point, I’ll get up an Interlude. For those not familiar with the other _Ettelëa_ stories, the _Ettelëa Interludes_ are porn that’s not crucial to the plot – a bonus for those who like that sort of thing, and easily skipped for those who don’t.
> 
> Title means “God help everyone” in Irish. As ever, your reviews give me life and joy and brain food. Om nom hom.


	37. Fáiltithe agus Ionróirí

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the reception happens (along with accidental fires and impromptu stripping), Thranduil discovers they are not alone (and manages to be entirely fucking terrifying), and Lorna discovers just how little control she actually has over her curse (and pays for it). This chapter isn’t quite as never-ending as the last, but it’s still pretty damn long.
> 
> The wonderful [Centawen](http://artbycentawen.tumblr.com/) on tumblr made some fantastic [fan art](http://artbycentawen.tumblr.com/post/143597379972/gome-here-drag-queen-barbie-spamberguesas)!

That had actually been a bit nerve-wracking, until Thranduil started his vows. He really was a little shit, and he’d pay for it later.

For now, however, there was food and booze and company, and she was starting to get the hang of walking in a dress, even if she did shuffle a bit in the slippers. How she was to dance in them, she didn’t know, but since she couldn’t dance anyway, she doubted they could really make things worse than they already were.

She looked up at Thranduil, her arm linked through his. God but he was pretty – but, more importantly, he was _happy_. He rarely actually smiled in front of anyone but her, but he was now.

“My way’s not so bad, is it?” she asked, elbowing him in the side.

“I cannot say that it is,” he said, looking down at her. “Did you call me what I think you called me in our vows?”

“Of course. I said I would, didn’t I?” she asked, attempting innocence and probably failing.

“You are incorrigible.” His expression turned curious. “How much do you know of that language?”

“Some,” she said. “I’ve not spoken it in years, but I could teach you what little I know. Why?”

“I have what you would call a theory,” he said. “I will explain later, when we actually have time. Meanwhile, I had Elrond and his sons bring up a cask of my wine.” He led her to a barrel that had to be nearly as tall as she was, around which were already clustered a knot of villagers.

“Hang on,” Michael said, “if it’s been sitting in your cellar a thousand years, won’t it be vinegar by now?”

“It was made by Elves,” Thranduil said. “Of course not. We live forever, Master Michael – our things, even our wine, are made to endure.” He knocked the bung out, fitting a spigot before tipping it on its side. “Now, Dorwinion is potent even for an Elf, so I would recommend only a taste before returning to your own liquor. Otherwise you will fall asleep, and wish you were dead when you wake.”

Lorna was pretty sure that wouldn’t stop a few people, but it _would_ stop her. She was about to fall asleep, dammit. Not until much later.

Thranduil only put a taste of it into her glass, and she immediately wanted more. It was sweet and rich and heavy, and if not for his warning, she would have downed a whole glass. “Can I mix some’v this with vodka?”

His utterly revolted expression made her burst out laughing. “Thranduil,” she said, “are you a wine snob?”

“One does not adulterate Dorwinion,” he sniffed. “Let us instead see this cake. I believe your grandmother made it.”

 _How_ , Lorna didn’t know. It was big enough that everyone could have a bite, though not much more than that. Just how much flour and sugar did Gran use? Probably too much that they couldn’t spare.

Honestly, Lorna felt rather guilty about that, until it occurred to her that the lot of them _needed_ a party, and her wedding was a perfect excuse. Their lives had been completely upheaved, who knew what would have happened to their homes by the time this was over – hell, nobody yet knew when it would be over. Apparently it was getting better now that there were fewer Gifted outside to wreak havoc, but given how bad it had been, ‘better’ was a relative term. Having a party for now reason would be irresponsible as hell, but weddings were different.

It was with that in mind that she mixed herself a rum and Coke. Thranduil found fizzy drinks nauseating – too much sugar – but she wasn’t a bartender for nothing. It seemed Big Jamie had set out all the ingredients he had, so she put together a White Russian.

“Drink up,” she said. “Somebody’ll try to make us dance soon, and I can’t, so you might as well numb your toes before I step on them.”

“Just follow my lead, Firieth Dithen,” he said. “I will not lead you astray.” 

Old Orla clapped her hands. “All right, you lot – it’s not a wedding without dancing. Dai, get out here.”

The lad in question took a seat on an empty stretch of table, fiddle in hand. Lorna tried not to cringe, already certain where _this_ was going, but she was pleasantly surprised. Dai might not be much use at most things, but evidently he was some manner of fiddle prodigy. She didn’t recognize the tune, but it was a lively reel, fast-paced, and something she would in no way try to dance to even if she was sober.

Big Jamie’s wife, Young Orla, started in with a bodhran, the beat deep and strong. Alec apparently needed no further urging – he dragged Molly out into the middle of the floor. Both were already so drunk that their dancing was more like perpetually delayed falling, but Lorna doubted they cared.

Poor Elrond had been looking rather left out, in a stoic, Elven sort of way – understandably, since he didn’t know what anyone was saying. His entire demeanor changed, however, when his wife drew him out to dance, rather more gracefully than Alec and Molly.

Reels were such that one didn’t actually need a partner, so few by few more people went (or staggered) to join them. The thunder of feet on stone grew ever louder, laughter threatening to drown out the music. Yes, several of the dancers crashed into each other, but it wasn’t a proper reception unless everyone over the age of sixteen was completely ossified.

Mairead’s four weren’t the only children who had taken stepdancing classes in Kildare, and they wove in and out now, agile as you please, while the fiddle soared high and the bodhran beat fast and low.

“If they ever wish us to dance, they must find a different tune,” Thranduil said. “I do not believe I could lead you through this.”

“I couldn’t keep up with you if you tried,” Lorna said, draining her glass. “For a musician, I’ve got no sense of rhythm at all, even when I’m not trying not to trip over a dress.” Somehow, she couldn’t see Thranduil cutting loose in front of a crowd of any sort. Yes, the villagers all knew him, but she suspected his dignity wouldn’t allow it.

Elrond and Celebrían certainly weren’t half so boisterous as the humans. It was good to see them happy, now that they were away from the horror show that was the DMA. They’d probably been here before, very long ago.

Their sons, she saw, seemed to be more interested in the buffet, sampling all the exotic modern food. Lorna didn’t know just how exotic they’d find most of it, since she suspected ham and cheese platters were the same everywhere.

The fiddle shifted to a softer, slower tempo, and Thranduil took her hand. She was tipsy enough that she knew already this wasn’t going to end well, but she humored him, trying not to trip.

“Stand on my feet,” he said, smirking.

“What?”

“Stand on my feet. That way you will only stumble if I do.”

Lorna burst out laughing, but did as bidden, wrapping her arms around him.

“No, give me your right hand,” he said, taking it, and wrapped his free arm around her back. “Trust me.”

“Drop me and I’ll bite you,” she warned. “And not in the fun way.”

That earned her an actual smile. “I will not drop you,” he promised.

She laughed when they actually made it out to the others. She had to admit, at least he knew what he was doing – he was every bit as graceful as Elrond and Celebrían, and standing on his feet, she couldn’t slow him down or stumble. She only hoped nobody managed to snag her veil in passing, or Gran might murder her.

She was too short to see whatever it was that crashed into one of the tables, but from the sound of the swearing, it was Alec. It had to be a fairly heavy crash, too, for metal cutlery jangled onto the floor, along with a few plates and somebody’s glass.

The music skipped no more than a beat, though Old Orla’s, “Oh, well _done_ , Alec” briefly drowned it out.

There came another clang, and a great deal of cursing – and then a violent _whoosh_ , accompanied by a gout of flame a good four feet high. 

The music screeched to a halt this time, an odd cacophony of curses and cheers taking its place. Lorna hopped off Thranduil’s feet, and elbowed people out of her way, wondering just what the hell was going on.

It looked like Alec had upended the punch bowl onto the floor, the knocked a candle onto it – there was so much liquor in the punch that it ignited like gasoline, and a literal wave of flame was washing across the stone.

Molly, in a fit of not-so-brightness, tried to smother it by dumping a bowl of crisps onto it, which of course caught fire as well, the grease content so high they flamed like coals.

“Oh, well done,” Mairead snapped, shrugging out of her suit jacket. It seemed she had some hazy idea of smothering it that way, but the polyester count must have been too high, because a few moments later _it_ was smoldering, too, the stench of burnt fabric filling the air. “Well, _shit_. Anybody got anything cotton?” The puddle was spreading fast, threatening the bench until Mairead shoved it out of the way.

“Oh, for Eru’s sake,” Thranduil sighed, his fingers making quick work of the buttons on his tunic/dress/thing.

“You’re not going to burn _that_?” Mairead asked, horrified, while at the same time Lorna said, “I didn’t realize you meant to give everyone a free show.”

“ _Hush_ , both of you,” he said, dropping the garment over the flames and stomping on it.

Lorna didn’t bother hiding her appreciative ogle of his arse, which looked truly fantastic in black velvet – hey, they were married now. She had every right to. She was not, however, the only one, and it took every ounce of willpower she had to keep her laughter at bay.

That did the trick for the flames, at least, though the odor of burnt fabric grew even worse. Thranduil swept them all a glare. “Behave,” he ordered, somehow still regal in spite of the fact that he was entirely lacking a shirt, and then he was off, presumably to find new clothes.

“Why?” Lorna called after him. “You never do.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

She hoped he was out of earshot when Molly said, “You lucky bastard.”

“Don’t I know it,” Lorna said, looking at the charred remains of that beautiful garment. While she was rather indifferent to her own clothes, that had been a lovely thing. “He’s got an incredible arse. Actually, he’s got an incredible everything.”

“ _Lorna_ ,” Mairead groaned.

“What? It’s true. Somebody get the music going again, will you?” She poured herself a shot of vodka and downed it, the liquor burning all the way to her stomach.

Start it did, while a few of the less inebriated moved the rest of the candles – dropping a few along the way.

Presently, Thranduil returned, this time in a tunic/dress/whatever of a red so dark it was nearly black. He swept the lot of them with a look that dared anyone to comment. Even the drunkest did not.

“Now,” he said. “I believe we were dancing.” He took Lorna’s hand again, guiding her to stand on his feet again. She burst out laughing, but dance they did.

\--

Apparently Lorna had not been jesting when she said Irish weddings were…unique. Thranduil could only hope nothing else caught fire.

The music was nothing like that of the Elves, but he could still dance to it. It was a marvelous thing, that these Edain could know such joy even in the midst of such chaos.

And Lorna – happy, laughing, tipsy, and, admittedly, eying him like she wanted to devour him. He would be happy to let her, in time. In not much time, for he feared that, given opportunity, she would drink herself into unconsciousness.

“I think we’d best cut the cake, before Gran murders someone,” she said, a little breathless.

“I still wish to know how they managed it,” he said, leading her off the floor. Not only had Bridie made quite a large cake, she’d somehow frosted it.

“Cut this thing before I die and decompose,” she said when they approached, thrusting a knife into Thranduil’s hand. “Shut it, all’v you – they’re cutting the cake.”

Yet again the music screeched to a halt, the villagers drifting over. Half of them went for more booze.

“I’m not one for speeches,” Bridie said, “so I’ll just say this: don’t you bloody dare knock my granddaughter up again. We don’t need this mess twice, so work out those condoms or I’ll give you a vasectomy with a rusty knife.”

Thranduil didn’t know what a vasectomy was, but he could hazard a guess. What was more, he could easily believe Bridie would try it. In some ways, she and Lorna were disturbingly alike.

“I will endeavor not to,” he intoned. “Now let us eat this cake, so that I may go and make certain I know how to avoid getting my wife with child again.”

Lorna choked on a laugh, while Bridie arched an eyebrow.

\--

The cake, Lorna found, was surprisingly delicious for having been made without eggs. Everybody only got a tiny slice, but it was moist and rick – vanilla, with a hint of cinnamon and something else she couldn’t identify, that gave it a bit of a kick. It made her think learning to cook might just be worth it, if she could replicate this masterpiece.

“Gran, I think you’d Gordon Ramsay weep with joy,” she said. “This is the best bloody thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

Her Gran didn’t often smile, but she did now. “Haven’t made it since the War,” she said. “We’ve all got to used to luxuries. Might have to drag out all sorts of things I did then.”

“I will find some chickens, Mistress Bridie,” Thranduil said. “And perhaps a cow or two. May people sustained ourselves quite well, long ago. It should not be too hard to do so again, especially if we can plant a garden in the spring. Perhaps by then you may return to your homes – but perhaps not. One cannot be too prepared.”

The entire group looked at one another. “Whatever’s coming, we’re safest in here,” Big Jamie said. “I’ll sleep easier knowing my family’s well out’v it. Nobody’s breaking in _here_ in the middle’v the night. If I know I’ve got these caverns to return to at the end’v the day, I’ll not be half so worried.”

“Me too,” Mairead said. “God bloody knows what’ll happen in the aftermath’v this. We’ve got our own power in town, but what if’ the water’s cut off, and stays off?”

Thranduil would never admit it aloud, but that was precisely what he wished to hear. Looking after them all would be far more difficult if they decided to leave.

“Bit’v a moot point, until this is over,” Molly said. “Worry later. Haven’t you got a bride you’re meant to go shag?”

The cheerful vulgarity of the villagers never cease to amuse him. “Indeed I do. Come, Firieth Dithen.”

Lorna arched an eyebrow. “I’d better,” she said. “Let’s see if we can beat last time.”

It took a moment for him to catch up with her vernacular, and then it was all he could do not to laugh. “We have far more time now,” he said. “I know we can.” Before she could respond, he lifted her off her feet, lest she trip on her way out and knock herself unconscious.

\--

Lorna woke the next morning incredibly sore, but in the best possible way. Elves, apparently, didn’t have a refractory period, and while a certain area was regretting that now, the rest of her was not.

Thranduil was still asleep, and she burrowed closer to him for warmth, until her protesting bladder forced her to hunt down her robe and do something about it.

When she lit the bathroom lanterns, the sight of her reflection made her groan. Her neck, shoulders, and collarbones were all covered in deep purple hickeys, and she knew her thighs would be, too. _That_ was easily hidden, but there was nothing she could do about her neck. _Dammit, Thranduil_.

Oh well. She’d left him with quite a few marks of his own – and given how fair his skin was, they’d stand out much worse.

Some thoughtful soul had lit the boiler, so she ran herself a nice hot bath, trying to ease her aching muscles. If they didn’t head back to work today, they’d have to tomorrow, and she couldn’t be too sore to be of any use.

She shut her eyes, letting herself float, wondering if the outside world was any better. Honestly, she felt rather bad to have such happiness when so many outside were going through hell. Without these caverns, she would be one of them.

“You are frowning, Firieth Dithen.”

Lorna jumped, flailing in the water. “I really am going to get you a bell,” she said, giving Thranduil a mock glower. “One’v these days you’ll startle me into heart failure.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” he said, shedding his robe and joining her. “We must return to the DMA by nightfall,” he added, sighing.

“I was afraid’v that. At least we had a day off – and don’t even think’v it, Mister. I’m sore enough as it is.”

He gave her a look that was entirely unrepentant. “As it might have been the only time we will have alone together for quite some while, I thought it wise to make the most of it.”

“That you did,” she said, flicking water at him. “My neck looks like I got mauled by a wild badger. I can only imagine the comments I’ll get until these bloody hickeys fade.”

“I am certain you will live, Firieth Dithen. I do not recall you objecting last night.”

She flicked more water at him, and yelped when he grabbed her around the waist.

They wound up staying in the tub rather longer than she’d expected.

\--

Later, clean, dry, and finally dressed, Thranduil paused.

Lorna was packing herself some spare clothes, heedless, but something – something was wrong in the world above. Very wrong, and it had nothing to do with magic.

He looked at her, and knew that she would only shout at him if he went outside without telling her. She really was absurdly protective, for all he did not need it, and he had no right to deny her. He had, after all, made her a promise last night. He could hardly go back on it so early.

“Lorna, something approaches above,” he said. “I do not yet know what it is, but I must see for myself. And I know you would not willingly remain behind.”

“Damn right I wouldn’t,” she said, grabbing her boots. Now that the wedding was over, she had gone back to her usual sturdy attire – in this instance, jeans and a worn black T-shirt covered in faded white lettering. It might as well have been a dress on her; the hemline landed right above her knees. It was probably the closest thing to a dress he was ever likely to see her in again. “Let’s go.”

Rather fortunately, they didn’t run into anyone on the way out – Thranduil suspected few would rise before noon. The halls were silent, but it was no longer the silence of emptiness. Oh, how he hoped he could gather those still abroad. He needed more people.

When they stopped out into the forest, he found that the snow had melted almost entirely, leaving the ground a swampy, soupy mess. Even now the air was strangely hot and dry, but the sky was lighter, the wind merely a breeze.

The forest itself was a wreck. It had withstood many storms, but none had been like this, and snapped boughs lay everywhere. The trees themselves were too old and too large to succumb, but high limbs had been torn away like twigs. The scent of fresh sap filled the air, clean and calming.

But Thranduil was not calm. Something had invaded his land, his village – thanks to the throbbing power of Nenya on his finger, he could sense it quite clearly. Edain, dozens of them, and they came with no good purpose.

Beside him, Lorna was uncharacteristically silent. A glance at her showed her brows drawn down, her face set in an expression of deep concentration.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Trying to use this bloody curse’v mine. I know I can search, but I can’t control it – it just latches on to whatever it feels like, and never for more than a moment.”

“What have you found?”

She frowned. “There’s a shitload’v them, I think. Government. They’re bright enough to know this all started here, but I can’t get more than that. I’m not even sure I’m right.” Her frustration was a palpable thing, and Thranduil took her hand and squeezed it.

“Lorna, when we reach the edge of the forest, I want you to stay back a moment – no, listen to me,” he said, forestalling her protest. “My vision is far keener than yours. Let me see exactly what we face first.”

Fortunately, she agreed to that readily enough. Lorna was stubborn, but she wasn’t stupid; a fact was a fact. Her vision was sharp for an Edain, but nowhere near as acute as his, even if he did only have one working eye. “Whenever we’ve got a chance, I want to actually learn how to use this curse,” she said. “It doesn’t do anyone much good if I can’t.”

“I will try,” he said, but he already knew how little he might succeed. His mental gift was vastly different – the only one who could effectively teach her was Von Ratched, and that was never going to happen. _Ever_. 

They walked the rest of the way in silence, hand in hand. The forest was restless; these last days must have disturbed it greatly, quite apart from the storm. It was no more used to so much wild magic than he was.

He ran his thumb over Nenya, the action almost unconscious. The ring’s power coursed through him, flaring and ebbing with each beat of his heart. None could have ever called Thranduil weak, but this was a strength no Elda could ever have hoped to achieve on their own. Whatever they were to face – whatever weaponry these Edain interlopers had brought – he would deal with it. This land was his, and he would suffer no trespassers.

The breeze picked up when they reached the edge of the treeline, slipping through his hair like invisible fingers. Eire, battered though it was, was alive beneath his feet – alive, and perilously close to sentient.

It was a full mile from the forest to the near end of the village, but that was close enough for him to easily see dozens of cars of all sorts spread through the streets, all a nondescript black. The Edain that swarmed among them were likewise garbed in black, bearing an assortment of guns he could not have hoped to name.

They even had what he recognized from movies to be a tank, and that – _that_ filled him with hot, slow-burning, righteous fury. They would not have brought it if they did not intend to attack his forest itself. They meant to raze his home.

It was fortunate for them that he had Lorna with him. Otherwise, he might have killed them all.

He had an uneasy suspicion he might need to anyway. He could not wipe their memories unless they entered his forest, but they could not leave with any knowledge of anything around it.

Thranduil glanced at Lorna. She was a pragmatist, but she was not a killer. And in truth, neither was he – not of Edain, anyway. There were some lines that, even in the grip of simmering wrath, he could not allow himself to cross.

That left only capture. Eru knew his dungeons were more than large enough, and perhaps, if so large a group disappeared, the government would leave things well enough alone.

But how? Neither he nor Lorna could hope to incapacitate so very many people at once. Not without killing them, anyway.

“Anything out there?” she asked quietly.

“Far too many things,” he said grimly. “More than I thought, and they all bear guns.”

“Don’t you dare go out there,” she hissed. “If it’s you they’re here for, they might well shoot you on sight.”

“I am aware,” he sighed. “We must capture them, but I do not yet know how.”

“I’ll go out,” she said. “I’m tiny, human, and I look harmless.”

Thranduil grabbed her shoulders, pushing her backward into the trees. “ _No_ ,” he said. “For all we know, they intend to kill everyone in the village, and leave no witnesses.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” she growled, stumbling a little. “So what the hell do we do?”

He still had no answer, but when he peered out the edge again, he saw a line of Edain stretched out across the fields, advancing in a crouch, guns at the ready. Behind them came the tank, its treads chewing up the grass, leaving naught but destruction in its wake.

They were coming for his forest. For his people.

For him.

The heat of his wrath rose, searing in his veins, fanned yet further by the whap of a helicopter blades overhead – quite low overhead. It would seem the Edain were searching with everything they had at their disposal.

The crack of gunfire split the air, boughs splintering wherever the bullets hit. They had to be very _large_ bullets, too, to create such damage.

Lorna scrambled backward, tripping over a root and landing hard on her side, cracking her head on a tree-trunk as she did.

Thranduil hurried toward her, hauling her upright and drawing her close, but she seemed scarcely aware of him. She was too busy glaring up at the sky, at the shape that hovered above the naked boughs.

“You _whore_ ,” she snarled. “You goddamn shitstain, I’m gonna murder you in the fucking _face_!”

Something shivered – something around her, within her – she trembled in his arms not from fear, but from a rage so intense he could practically taste it.

The helicopter fired again, but only for a moment. The thing twisted in the air, jerking sideways, the blades fighting a force they could not touch. One by one by crumpled or outright snapped, and the helicopter veered drunkenly north, out toward the fields – toward their invaders.

When it hit the ground, it hit so hard the earth shuddered beneath Thranduil’s feet. Lorna didn’t seem to notice – she was struggling against his hold, her eyes afire with vengeance.

And he would have let her have it, if not for the ashy pallor of her skin, or the blood that dripped unheeded from her nose. He did not know what kind of toll that had taken from her, but it couldn’t possibly be safe for her to do that.

But if he told her so, he knew she wouldn’t listen – he knew well this sort of fury, for Eru knew that he had felt it himself. Instead he hauled her up and kissed her, the salt of her blood mingling with the sweet lavender taste that was _Lorna_.

“I need you with me, Firieth Dithen,” he said. “ _You_ , not your wrath. Do not let it control you, or it might well kill you.” He wiped some of the blood from her face with his thumb. “Will you hate me, if some of them die?”

“No,” she breathed, the unholy light of wrath still alive in her eyes. “No, I won’t.”

\--

Lorna and rage were very old friends. Her time in Lasgaelen had soothed her temper a great deal, for there was nothing to get truly furious at, but now – oh, _now._

Fury was strength, pure as fire and twice as hot – it subsumed pain and grief and fear, leaving only itself.

These assholes had tried to kill them. They had not known who or what lingered at the edge of the forest, and they had not cared.

Lorna didn’t care, either.

She hurt – God, did she hurt, her head pounding like a bodhran, but fury rendered it moot for now, though she would pay for it later.

Let them die, if they must. Let them _all_ die, and send a message to those who sent them: stay away, or you’re next.

She followed Thranduil, staggering a little, her hand gripped firmly in his. Enraged though she was, she could feel the change in him – a soul-deep shift so powerful it traveled up through her arm, tingling. She’d suspected since she met him that he could likely be very cold if he chose, but his pale eyes were chips of ice, remote as the stars and just as bright – and utterly, terrifyingly inhuman. That he still had her blood smeared on his mouth didn’t help.

He led her along the edge, closer to the village, to the sudden chaos that was their invaders. The crash of the helicopter had sent them scurrying like ants, scrambling for cover.

If only there was another one – but she didn’t know how she’d done it the first time. She might not manage it a second.

“What’re you going to do?” she asked, when he halted.

“I have an idea, Firieth Dithen,” he said, pulling her close. “We need at least some of them alive. My mental gifts do not work enough beyond the bounds of this forest, but yours does. Between us and Nenya, I may be able to use them as you cannot.”

“How in bloody hell do we do that, if our curses aren’t the same?”

Thranduil smiled – a slow, predatory smile that somehow managed to creep her out and turn her on at the same time. “Focus,” he said, lifting her up to stand on a rock. She wasn’t terribly surprised when he kissed her.

It was a kiss that made it impossible for her to focus on anything else, devastatingly deep and hungry, yet there was a power in it that was not carnal. It was a connection not of the body, but of the mind, a bridge between his and hers.

And the strength in it…Lorna had known his mind was formidable, but apparently she hadn’t known the half of it. It put what little she’d felt of Von Ratched’s to shame, and now she could have drawn off it, if she’d thought her own mind could withstand the strain.

 _Seek, Lorna_ , he said. _Seek, and I will read through you._

Seek she did, her lips still brushing his. There was simply no way she would be able to find all of them, but she didn’t need them all. It wasn’t likely there were any who didn’t know why they were out here, what they meant to do.

She latched onto a man, one of those in the field, and it _hurt_ – but Thranduil took over, easing the strain on her, piggy-backing her curse and amplifying it with his own power.

What they found did not surprise her. The group had been sent to liquidate the village and Thranduil, but they had been given orders to, if possible, bring in her and the twins alive.

Thranduil broke the connection, and when she opened her eyes, what she saw in his filled her with icy dread.

“Lorna,” he said, his voice razor-edged and frigid, “may I borrow your telekinesis?” She could feel how very much it strained him, pausing to seek her consent.

She had a fairly good idea what he meant to do with it, and she didn’t care. “Yes,” she said.

His left arm wrapped around her, his fingers carding through her hair with a gentleness quite at odds with his rage. His right hand he raised, the ring on his forefinger glittering in the storm-light – 

Something shifted, something so deep and fundamentally enormous that she would have fallen if not for his hold on her. Something flashed, searing, blinding, but she didn’t know if it was within her mind or outside of it.

It was too much – far too much. Darkness took her, and she knew no more.

\--

Jack Nolan had known they sought some supernatural being. None of them were at all prepared for what they found.

Nobody had warned them about potential telekinetic activity. And he was damn certain none of them had been warned of the odds they would die here. And die they did.

Not all of them, not by a long shot, but they all fell, insensate. They had fallen, untouched and unmarked – everyone but him. He ran from person to person, checking for a pulse; in many he found one, but in far too many he did not.

Something prickled along his skin, primal dread seeping through his veins. He looked up from the corpse of Pat Dooley, and froze. He was no longer alone.

The man, the _creature_ that stared at him from the edge of the forest had to be what they were searching for. Looking at him, Jack wondered how the hell _anyone_ would have thought they could kill him. So tall and pale and _alien_ , his eyes twin wells of depthless memory – and rage.

Jack was going to die.

He tried to stand, to flee when the creature approached, but he was utterly paralyzed. Up close, he saw the odd points of the man’s ears – no, he wasn’t human. He wasn’t even close.

He knelt long enough to seize Jack by the throat, easily lifting him one-handed. “Know this,” he said, his voice soft and deep and deadly, “if your masters ever seek my family again, I will raze this entire island into the sea.”

He threw Jack with a strength that was beyond terrifying, and then he was gone, back into his ancient forest.

Jack ran for it.

\--

Thranduil had carefully laid Lorna on a bed of moss, and he picked her up with equal care. The strength of her gift was too much for her to handle; the force of it had overloaded her consciousness, but it had done her no real harm.

He would collect the living later – they would not wake any time soon. The dead were few, but he would leave them as a warning, should anyone prove stupid enough to not heed the first.

These people were his. No one – _no one_ – would touch them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how the Lady warned Thranduil that protection could be taken too far? Yeah, she’s lucky it wasn’t worse. At least most of them are still alive.
> 
> Title means ‘Receptions and Invasions’ in Irish. As ever, your reviews make me dance with joy.


	38. Trioblóid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so incredibly long. My daughter came to visit from school, so I didn’t have much in the way of writing time. God help me, she’s decided she wants to read _Ettelëa_ – so I sent her a copy, rather than risk her discovering the Interludes. _That_ is the last thing I need.
> 
> In which Thranduil is determined to not be a monster, Miranda hates her life, and things might not be as done as they all think.

Elrond and his family were the only ones awake enough to feel it, but feel it they did – a massive, shuddering expenditure of power, mostly Elven but partly alien.

For whatever reason, Thranduil had just called on Nenya. And he’d had some form of help.

“I will see what it is,” Elrond said, rising. “If he is in a temper, I would rather not inflict it on you all.”

He hurried out of the kitchens, through the winding pathways. There was a reason Círdan had kept the rings from Thranduil, and not just because Mithrandir had greater need of it.

Ever since the Last Alliance, there had been a darkness in Thranduil’s fëa, and it had only grown worse after the dragonfire. At his core he remained a good person, but his brand of ruthlessness meant giving him one of the Three might have proven unwise. None of them had been sure just what he might do, with the noblest of intentions.

Elrond could only hope he hadn’t done anything overly terrible now.

He hurried through the empty, silent halls, out into the weak, yellowish light of day. There was nothing he could do save talk to Thranduil, and hope it did any good.

He met the ellon himself perhaps a mile and a half down a winding creek, carrying his tiny, bleary wife, who was slurring at him in her own tongue. Her nose had bled at some point, but otherwise she looked healthy enough.

Thranduil, on the other hand…there was a strange serenity about him, but it was not comforting. The light of Nenya shone in his eyes, as it had in Galadriel’s, but he lacked her wisdom.

“Thranduil, what did you do?” Elrond asked warily.

“I defended my home,” Thranduil said flatly. “There are a number of unconscious Edain who must be brought to my dungeons. They were sent to raze my forest and kill us all.”

“But they are alive?”

“Most of them. I intend to keep them – evidently, sending them back with their memories altered is not a strong enough message, so now none will go back at all.”

“You intend to imprison, not execute?” Elrond asked carefully.

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. “They are no more threat to me now. Leaving them trapped in my dungeons for the rest of their lives might be a worse fate anyway.”

Elrond was unspeakably relieved. Ruthless Thranduil might be, but at least he was not a monster. Yet. “Shall I see to her?”

“She will be fine,” Thranduil said, looking down at his semi-conscious wife. “She needs rest. Her gift, I think, is too strong for her body, so her consciousness shuts down before it can destroy her. Something must be done about that.”

“She is Edain, Thranduil. She cannot help her frailty – and neither can you.”

The woman slurred something more, giving Thranduil a muzzy attempt at a glare.

“I believe she will kick me if I do not let her sleep. Meet me later, Elrond – we have a number of Edain to move.” He left Elrond to his somewhat unwelcome thoughts.

Elrond had not been pleased that his family decided to join him. Now he feared they might not be enough.

He needed reinforcements, but how many more would the Valar release – and who could he sent for, even if they would? Thranduil had no love for Galadriel; her presence would only make things worse. He had less issue with Celeborn, but that was not saying much. 

If only Legolas did not linger in the Halls of Mandos, but all who had perished in the Obliteration remained there. Whatever it had done to them was so traumatic that they would not leave Námo’s care, even a thousand years later. Tauriel had once been Thranduil’s ward, but she too slumbered in the Halls, waiting for the world to be remade and her Dwarf returned to her.

Were there _any_ Thranduil would accept? Elrond would have to think on it. He himself would ask for Erestor, and possibly Lindir, because he needed aid of his own. Ennor was far beyond him now, and the tongue they spoke was like nothing he had ever heard.

He would ask the Sharley-creature if she would speak with Yavanna, whenever she could actually be found. Meanwhile, he would likely be too busy in the immediate future to give it undue thought. Lorna needed sleep, but the rest of them were due back in the DMA.

\--

Once satisfied Lorna would sleep comfortably in their rooms, Thranduil paused.

Realistically, he would need more than the help of Elrond’s family to move all the unconscious invaders, but he did not want the villagers to see the dead – he did not wish them to fear him, and fear him they would, he was sure.

But no – he could not keep this from them. He had never been a deceptive King; he could not become one now. If they had issue with his protection, they could go to the DMA, where he at least knew they would be safe. He would not hold them prisoner, though a dark part of him wished to keep them here whether they wanted to stay or not.

Lorna was quite right to think him possessive, for it was a very difficult habit to break. He must break it – he could not keep any of his own here against their will. He had no right.

But, at times, the thought was very tempting.

He would tell them, when they woke, and any who were not suffering too much from last night’s indulgences could help him, if they chose. If they did not, he would not be returning to the DMA today.

\--

Miranda rarely took breaks, and had taken even fewer in the last four days. Thank frigging God Sharley had taken Von Ratched away again – though she’d warned Miranda that, whatever he did in future, she didn’t dare try to stop it.

“Why _not_?” Miranda had asked, peevish.

The look in Sharley’s odd eyes had forestalled any further complaint. “Reality is a more tenuous thing than you realize,” she’d said. “You have no idea how easily I could smash it, if I push something the wrong way. None of you seem to want to believe me when I say I can’t interfere. I’ve done more than I ought to already. Bad shit’s gonna happen, and you’ll curse me for not stopping it, but at least you’ll still exist _to_ curse.”

That was so chilling Miranda hadn’t been sorry to see the last of her. Only now were any of them truly getting a feel for how powerful Sharley really was – and how basically useless that power was.

In any event, Miranda now sat in her office, boots off, feet propped on the desk. She could only afford ten minutes at the very most, but she meant to use them well.

The universe, apparently in an effort to prove that it hated her, sent someone knocking on the door.

“God dammit,” she grumbled, rising. She wrenched open the door to find Seung, one of the technicians who worked with the Trees. He had a roll of paper in his hands, and he did not look happy. “This had better be good.”

“It’s, uh, not,” he said. He was a young man – no more than twenty, if that, and slightly twitchy. He thrust the paper at her. “Something happened outside,” he said. “Something I don’t think was one of us.”

Miranda eyed the lines. Usually, a large expenditure of power created a spike – this was a plateau, holding almost steady for far too long. “Could be Von Ratched,” she said, though that damned Lord Thranduil was a better bet. She’d check with him first – and if he _was_ the culprit, she was more than willing to give him a clip round the ear. He ought to know better than to throw around anything big while things were still so precarious. Either he was dumber than she thought, or something nasty had happened. 

Somehow, she doubted it was the former.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, handing the paper back to Seung. “Keep it steady, if you can. I’ll go see what Elf Boy did.”

He nodded, hurrying off, and she stuffed her feet back into her boots. She was pretty sure Von Ratched wasn’t stupid enough to go after Lord Thranduil directly, but it wasn’t totally outside the realm of possibility. In Miranda’s experience, nothing ever was.

She hurried off, dodging and weaving through the crowd. It was much more orderly now – the chaos was fully contained, rather than just barely. 

She didn’t trust it to last. But then, there wasn’t much she _did_ trust.

As luck would have it, she ran into Lord Thranduil just as he came through his Door. His expression turned her ire to wariness – his eyes were cold, yet weirdly satisfied, but his face might well have been a porcelain mask.

“I suppose you felt that,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“We did,” Miranda said. “What the fuck?”

“The government sent a party to kill us all,” he said flatly. “I came to warn you that we cannot aid you today. I have a number of bodies to move – before you ask, most of them are still alive. I must get them into my dungeons before they wake.”

That set off all sorts of warning bells, but it was better than straight-up murdering them. “Christ,” she muttered. “I’ll see about sending some help. All your Gifted can go back today – they’ve got a lock on their Gifts now. We’ll see about training them once everything’s calmed down a bit.”

She didn’t think she was imagining the subtle relief in his eyes. “I thank you, Mistress Miranda. I will return the favor, once I am able.”

He left before she could say anything more, and she wished she wasn’t so relieved to see him go. She had a sneaking suspicion he might well prove more trouble than he was worth.

\--

Dai, having been busy with his fiddle most of last night, was one of a very few who hadn’t drank themselves into a stupor. He wandered down to the kitchens at a relatively decent hour, slapping together a cheese sandwich for breakfast. Enough poking at the woodstove gave him a fire high enough to boil a kettle on, though god knew how long it would take. These caverns were beautiful, but he couldn’t deny there were some things about the modern world that he missed. He couldn’t cook on this thing if he tried.

Young Orla joined him, and Bridie, and a whole gaggle of children. A pale, visibly disturbed Mairead followed shortly thereafter.

“You look like someone stepped on your grave,” Bridie said.

“Sound carries through the chimneys,” Mairead said. “I heard things I can never un-hear.”

“ _Ew_ ,” Shannon said, even as Bridie burst out laughing.

“It’ll haunt my nightmares,” Mairead said, twitching a little.

“Just be glad you grew up in a decent-sized house,” Bridie said. “I lived in that cottage as a girl. Bit hard not to hear all the goings-on.”

“Oh _God_ ,” Shannon groaned, grabbing a slice of bread and running off, which only made Bridie laugh harder.

The girl very nearly collided Lord Thranduil on her way out the door, but it didn’t so much as pause before dodging around him.

He turned to watch her flee, and shook his head. “I must beg a favor of all who are physically able,” he said. “There are probably two score Edain – your people – scattered unconscious throughout the fields and village. I cannot move them all to the dungeons myself in any reasonable amount of time.”

“What happened?” Orla asked.

“Your government sent a party of warriors to kill us all,” he said flatly. “Some I killed myself, but most slumber, and cannot be allowed to leave when they wake. Miranda told me she will wend any she can afford to spare to help us, but I fear they will not be many.”

Somehow, Dai wasn’t surprised Lord Thranduil killed a few. What was surprising was that he’d let any of them live – back in the day of kings and queens, an average human king probably would have killed them all and not thought twice about it. “I’ll help,” he said. “But we’ll be needing Big Jamie’s carts. None’v us could drag an adult that far.”

“Why didn’t you just kill them all?”

Dai looked at Mairead, who was both very still and very livid. “What, he _should_ have?”

“Yes,” she said, to his immense surprise. “If they came to kill us, then yes. I’ve four children to worry about, Dai – I’d rather none that came here to harm them draw breath.”

“Your sister was with me,” Lord Thranduil said. “She would not have wished me to. And there are some lines I simply dare not cross.” He seemed, in that moment, very old, for all he didn’t look much more than thirty.

“What does _that_ mean?” she demanded.

Lord Thranduil gave her a very strange, assessing look. “Always, when I have faced my enemies, I have done so head-on, with a sword in my hand,” he said. “They had, in theory, means to defend themselves. My people were once keen archers, but even then, there was some small chance someone would escape them. To use this ring as I did – it is unfair. They stood no chance. I have done some terrible things, Mistress Mairead, but I do have _some_ honor left, however tarnished. Perhaps there may come a time where I will have to kill future invaders, but it was not this day.”

Mairead looked rather uncertain, and he added, “If it will appease you, none who cross the borders of my forest uninvited with return. Your tales of what I do to trespassers will no longer be fiction.”

 _That_ made her smile, and it was one of the creepiest things Dai had ever seen.

\--

Nuala was quite glad to be sent home – and even more glad that she could take Mick and Siobhan with her. Now that things were halfway under control, the doctors and nurses with actual Gifts could take over.

Doc Barry was staying on a bit, basically apprenticing with another doctor who was also an aura-manipulator. Nuala didn’t envy her at all, even if seeing auras _did_ sound kind of cool. She’d take their sleepy little village surgery any day, thanks so much.

Mick and Siobhan had both been taught the most important thing about their Gifts: how to turn them off. Further training would have to wait until there was time. They just wanted to get home as badly as Nuala. Or did, until they discovered what was going on when they got there.

Most of the village seemed monumentally hung-over, yet they were busy dragging bodies – living bodies, they hastened to assure her, all bound for the dungeons.

“We’d appreciate help, if you can give it,” Big Jamie said. He was looking a little green. “Then we’d best get anything we left behind in the village. I don’t think we’ll be able to move back.”

“What, _ever_?” Siobhan asked, wide-eyed.

“Not until the government stops hunting us. We were all meant to die today. Most’v these goons are alive, but they can’t be allowed to leave.”

Icy horror shuddered through Nuala. Kill them all – that was the sort of thing you saw in movies, not real life. Then again, so was everything else that had happened in the last eight months. “Anything else I should know about?” she asked, a little helplessly. “Zombies?”

“Not yet,” Lord Thranduil said from behind her, scaring half the life out of her. “Though at this rate, I would not be surprised.”

“Told you it’d happen someday,” Lorna said. She looked completely exhausted, and – oh, God, they both had some impressive hickeys. If Nuala had missed their wedding, she’d fetch someone such a slap. She wasn’t sure _who_ , but someone.

“Well, it has not happened yet.”

Nuala rolled her eyes. She wished she could say dragging a load of unconscious people to the dungeons was the weirdest thing she’d done in the last week, but it wasn’t even close. At least it would get her out in the fresh air.

She, Mick, and Siobhan followed after him and Lorna, past a neat row of bodies that looked a little too dead for her comfort. How the hell had he managed _that_? Just how big a bag of tricks did he really have, that none of them yet knew about? Nuala was glad he was on their side, because she was only now realizing how much of a nightmare he’d be of an enemy. She hoped the government, or whoever, got the message.

It had been so long since she’d been outside that she was a little shocked to see all the snow had gone. There were deep ruts in the mud from Big Jamie’s pallet-cart, which approached now, loaded with inert men in black fatigues. Jesus, how many _were_ there?

“Nearly fifty,” Lord Thranduil said, when she asked. “I sent one back to his masters with a warning.”

“As if this wasn’t warning enough,” Lorna muttered. “They’d have to be beyond daft to come back again.”

“Well, it _is_ the government,” Mick said, and his tone made Nuala burst out laughing.

“True. Have we got another cart?” she asked.

“No, but we’ve got Gran’s wheelbarrows,” Lorna said. “Let’s get this done.”

It was unsettling work – all the more so because some of the bodies littering the streets were dead. Seeing them all – some sprawled on the ground, others slumped in their cars – reminded Nuala way too much of that Stephen King book _The Stand_. At least it was magic that hit Ireland, and not some plague.

God, what would happen if there _was_ a plague? Oh, the village would be safe in Lord Thranduil’s halls, but they all had family out in the wider world, many of whom weren’t even in Ireland anymore, having headed out in search of jobs in some country less bloody expensive to live in. At least it meant they’d been well out of this mess.

But if there was a plague, or – or _anything_ , they needed to bring their people home. She and Molly had two other sisters in Australia, both married with kids; all five of Old Orla’s were in America. Big Jamie had God knew how many cousins, and that was just the start of it.

“Lord Thranduil,” she said, “how would we go about getting everybody home, if we had to? Everyone’s got people on the outside. If this—” she fell abruptly silent, and blinked. Strange, subtle light-tracers danced before her eyes, translucent rainbows that clouded her vision. There was – there was – oh, _God_.

\--

Lorna was hardly expecting Nuala to drop like a shot duck, and so didn’t manage to catch her before she hit the ground. Thranduil did, but she was twitching so badly he could barely keep hold of her.

“ _Shit_ ,” Lorna hissed. There was nowhere to lay her down, but they had to put her _somewhere._

“What in Eru’s name is wrong with her?” he asked, trying to keep the poor woman from flailing right out of his grasp.

“She’s having a seizure,” Lorna said. “Here, this bit’s a little less muddy – you’ve got to put her down. You’re not supposed to restrain someone who’s having one.” Christ, that wasn’t half creepy – Nuala’s eyes were wide and blank, fixed on nothing. So far as Lorna knew, she didn’t have a history of epilepsy. This was one hell of a time to develop it.

Thranduil’s expression was so appalled that she had a feeling he’d never witnessed a seizure before, but she had, far too many times – Kevin, one of her old gang members, had been epileptic, and they’d learned early on how to deal with his.

Lorna stripped off her flannel outer shirt, wadding it up and trying to lay it somewhat under Nuala’s head. With a grand mal seizure, you never knew how long it was going to last, but no amount of time at all was ever good.

“Thranduil, when this is over, we’ve got to get her to the DMA,” she said. “She needs a doctor.”

“What causes this?” he asked, kneeling in the mud beside Nuala, heedless of his velvet trousers.

“I’m not a doctor,” Lorna said, kneeling beside him. “I don’t really know, but I think it’s got something to do with the electrical impulses in the brain getting banjaxed. Somebody in the DMA can give her an EEG or something, see what’s going on.”

Nuala abruptly went still, but her eyes remained wide and blank. Lorna, panicking, felt for her pulse and heaved a great sigh of relief when she found one.

“I can’t carry her all that way by myself,” she said. “I know we need to get these fuckers underground, but they’ve got to wait. She probably won’t have another one so soon, but you never know, and I’d rather she not be in the mud.” Poor Nuala had been run as ragged as everyone in the days leading up to the wedding; she deserved to recover in an actual damn bed.

Thranduil lifted her easily, bearing her back to the halls with an anxious Lorna at his heels. They’d get Nuala settled, and then they’d deal with these bodies – the living and the dead.

Christ. How had this become their lives?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who’s read _Ettelëa_ can probably guess what Nuala’s curse is. Anyone who hasn’t, stay tuned. Thranduil is going to find his resolve very sorely tested.
> 
> Title means ‘Trouble’ in Irish. As ever, your reviews sustain my soul.


	39. Poitéinseal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Nuala sees some shit, Thranduil figures _out_ some shit, and poor Sharley has no idea at all how badly her intended interference is going to backfire.

_Nuala didn’t know what she was seeing, but she didn’t like it. At all._

_The images were fragmented, brief glimpses that emerged from an odd grey fog. Ireland, mostly whole again, but still suffering the after-effects of this mess; utter chaos in England, spreading through Britain and Europe, spreading its way into Russia and China. It moved not like a line, but like a wave, rippling and expanding to India, the Middle East, Africa. It was a swathe of destruction that was less physical than societal; the Gifted, not being as concentrated in number as they were in Ireland, did not wreak quite so much havoc._

Home, _she thought, distantly_. Home, they have to come home, everyone who’s been touched by Lasgaelen. Sure God, how many is that by now? _She had no idea, but the number was probably larger than she thought._

_She saw the caverns, as crowded as they ought to be, and – oh God, what was that, what was it? A building like a hospital, pale and cold, prison to the Gifted. Dozens, scores, and there, standing at the head of one long stretch of hallway, the man called Von Ratched. Tall and terrible he was, his eyes like chips of ice –_

_The forest now, and Lord Thranduil, every bit as tall and terrible, the ring on his finger a frozen star. Never had she seen him look so cold, so alien –_ why? _Why, why, why? Never had she seen such rage, but it was frigid, implacable, and completely, utterly inhuman. Ally or not, he sent read curdling all through her._

_And then, mercifully, there was darkness._

\--

Nuala’s hospital room, though decent-sized, was standing-room only. Molly had followed, when Thranduil brought the poor woman in, followed in turn by Mairead, Mick, Alec, and half a dozen others Lorna wasn’t well-acquainted with. Doc Barry looked ready to murder every single one of them, up to and including Thranduil.

“She mentioned no prodrome symptoms?” she asked, shining a penlight in Nuala’s eyes. “No blurriness or dizziness?”

“No,” Lorna said. “One minute she was fine, and then she wasn’t.”

“I want to give her an EEG,” Doc Barry said. “Lord Thranduil, you’re good at parting a crowd – would you go first?”

“With pleasure,” he said, but he didn’t look pleased at all. One of his people was ill, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He drew Lorna alongside him, hand securely in his, his pace consciously slowed. He’d made a habit of that, to her relief, when she was pregnant, and it seemed to have stuck.

The crowd did indeed part before them, pressing against the walls seemingly automatically, while the gurney rolled very close behind.

“Nuala had a point,” he said. “We must find a way to gather the others home, if necessary – and we must find a way to feed them. Our prisoners will be a significant drain on our resources.”

“Do _we_ have to keep them forever?” she asked. “The DMA might be able to help, eventually. I’m sure a place this big has got to have something like a prison. Either that or wipe their minds and drop in the in the Australian outback.” She didn’t care how secure the dungeons were, she was never going to sleep well if she knew they were there.

She had a pretty good idea why Thranduil hadn’t just killed them all, and she couldn’t fault him for it, but it would have been so much easier if he had.

But that was the problem – it _would_ be easier. Violence was a slippery slope Lorna knew all too well. She didn’t have it in her to deliberately kill someone, but she _could_ have, if she’d allowed it of herself when she was younger. There were some places she simply did not want to go, and she couldn’t fault him for not wanting to, either.

And if he ever did…the thought was almost enough to make her shudder. If Thranduil decided to go on the warpath, she doubted there was a force on this planet that could stop him. She didn’t know what it might take to drive him to it, and she hoped they never need find out. He seemed bound and determined not to abuse that ring. Hopefully that would be enough.

They had to wait outside the room with the EEG machine, and she leaned against him, trying to turn her thoughts elsewhere. Lord Elrond and his family joined them, peering through the window with utter fascination – they, if anyone, would be able to help if Thranduil went barmy. But first, she had to be able to _talk_ to them.

She looked up at Thranduil, who stood stone-faced, watching the proceedings with unblinking eyes. “You asked about Welsh,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “Why?”

He looked down at her, his expression softening somewhat. “It sounds very familiar,” he said. “Say something.”

“My Welsh is total crap,” she warned. “Fy enw I yw Lorna. Rwy’n byw o dan y ddeaer. Mae fy ngŵr yn dal iawn.” _My name is Lorna. I live in a cave. My husband is very tall._

His expression turned thoughtful. “I believe that language may have some roots in Sindarin,” he said. “There are enough similarities that I think it highly likely, which means you might not have so difficult a time learning Sindarin.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, with a slight grimace. “My Welsh was never very good, and I’ve lost more’v it than I have Russian. Welsh is still in the Gaelic family, but it’s very different from Irish.”

“It cannot be as difficult as Russian,” Thranduil pointed out.

“It’s not, but I had a better Russian teacher, and more time to learn, since she was my cellmate. She tried to teach me her alphabet, but since I can’t spell in English worth a damn, we didn’t get very far. I’m better than I used to be, but that’s not saying much.”

“Well, you must learn Tengwar as well. I will study your alphabet in turn.”

Lorna fought a groan. She loved learning to speak new languages, but writing was another matter entirely. She’d simply left school too young, and her attendance had been crap to begin with. In gaol, they didn’t often give the inmates pencils, for fear someone would get shanked (which, to be fair, had actually happened).

“You are smarter than you give yourself credit for,” Thranduil said, running his fingers through her hair. “You have simply lacked opportunity.”

She doubted that, but she’d let him believe it. She’d spent too much of her life being called stupid, even in jest, to believe it herself.

Doc Barry emerged, followed by a middle-aged Asian woman in a white coat. “I’m stumped,” she said. “Her electrical activity’s still all over the place, even though the seizure’s finished. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I haven’t, either,” the other doctor said, her tone somewhat uneasy. Her voice was so thickly American Lorna could barley understand her. “But I have a guess. I won’t know until I can talk to her, but if I’m right…well. If I’m right, we need Sharley back, if she’ll come.”

“Why?” Molly asked. “What in bloody hell’s wrong with my sister?”

“Nothing’s _wrong_ , exactly,” the doctor said. “If she’s what I think she is, the seizures are a side-effect, not the cause. The good news is that it’s very, very unlikely they’ll be a common occurrence.”

“If you don’t get to the bloody point, I’ll fetch you such a slap,” Molly warned, eyes narrowed.

“She’s not joking,” Lorna put in.

The doctor winced. “I can’t say for sure,” she said. “If she’s what I suspect, we haven’t seen one in centuries, but she might have precognition. Too many of her physiological reactions make no rational sense for it to be epilepsy.”

“Precognition?” Molly asked. “What in bloody hell is that?”

“The ability to see the future,” Thranduil said, sounding utterly fascinated. I did not know foresight was possible for an Edain. A human,” he clarified.

“It’s very, very rare – and I mean _very_. If I’m right, she’ll be only the fourth we’ve found in the last thousand years. It’s been theorized that there are more out there, but it’s a Gift that could easily drive someone to suicide.”

Lorna thought of her gang, of Kevin – Kevin and his seizures, and the look he would sometimes get in his blue eyes. She thought of the warning he’d given her, now sixteen years ago, the night they’d crashed the bus into the Liffey – she’d been high out of her mind, but she’d never forgot:

_"You're marked, Lorna Donovan," he said. "Right here."_

_He touched her forehead, and she recoiled. She wanted to call him daft, say he'd had one too many before they left, but in the very bedrock of her soul she knew better. They'd all known for a long while now that Kevin was… different, but she'd never let herself wonder why, or how._

_"Get off it," she croaked, hardly aware of what left her mouth. "I'm not gonna die."_

_"No," he said, looking at her with an intense, almost bewildered curiosity, "you're not. Not yet, and I don't know why that is. You_ should _have, right here." He paused, more faraway than ever. "Maybe it didn't miss," he murmured. "Maybe it let you go."_

_She shuddered, and fought an urge to sick up again. She didn't want to believe it, any of it, but her beleaguered mind refused to deny his bizarre pronouncement._

_"A storm's coming for you, Lorna," he said. "Not for a long time yet, but it is. It's coming for all'v us, but it'll hit you first."_

_"You're off your nut," she said uneasily. "How in bloody fuck would you know any'v that?"_

_He was quiet a long, long time, ignoring all the others, who were too busy swearing to notice either of them. "Dunno if I should tell you this," he said. "I guess I ought to, given what'll come. Those seizures'v mine… I see things. Things about all'v us, but you… you've eighteen years before everything goes to hell for you. Be careful."_

He’d been off by two years, but that was likely Thranduil’s fault. Kevin, who had eaten a bullet at nineteen, and no one knew why.

Horror and grief washed through her in equal measure. If only he had found the DMA, or it had found him. How alone must he have felt, unable to confide in anyone sober for fear they’d think him cracked?

“I think I knew one,” she said. “Someone with precognition – he said something, but I didn’t understand it at the time. I don’t know how he’d got hold’v a gun, but he shot himself when we were nineteen.” _He told me some things_ , she added to Thranduil. _I’ll explain later_.

Thranduil wasn’t exactly a demonstrative person around any outside the village, but he drew her close, wrapping his right arm around her shoulders. “If Nuala has this Gift, can you help her?” he asked.

“I think so,” the doctor said. “We don’t have another to teach her, but we can try to manage it, at least. She won’t be alone. I’ll try her on a medication to lessen the severity of the seizures, but I don’t know that I can cure them entirely. Not if they’re as closely related to the Gift as I suspect.”

“That’s a bloody big downside,” Lorna muttered.

“All of our Gifts have one,” the doctor sighed. “Some worse than others, but they’re all there – aura-manipulators, empaths, and clairsentients can’t turn theirs off. Nor can the drainers, though thank God _they’re_ rare.”

“Drainers?” Thranduil asked.

“Everything they touch dies,” the doctor said grimly. “There’s no upside to _that_ one. Unless you’re a serial killer, anyway.”

Mick snorted. “So if one’v us gets it, we’ve got to wear mittens for the rest’v our lives?”

“Pretty much. You’re lucky – all you have to worry about is not growing roses everywhere. Yes, I heard about that,” she added. “The cornfield will never be the same.”

 _That_ Lorna desperately wanted to see. “Can you let us know when Nuala wakes up? We’ve still got a load’v bodies to move back home.”

The doctor opened her mouth, but evidently thought better of it. “I’ll send someone your way,” she said. “She’ll probably be asleep a while yet.”

“I’m staying,” Molly said firmly. “She’s my baby sister.”

“I’ll get you a chair. The rest of you, go.”

\--

As they made their way back to the caverns, Nenya throbbed on Thranduil’s finger. A very large part of him still wanted to kill the rest of their invaders and have done with it, and subsuming it was more difficult than it ought to be.

“Stay near me, Lorna, while we work,” he said. “I fear I might have great need of you, in the days to come – need that might perhaps be unfair.”

“It’s that ring, isn’t it?” she asked, looking up at him. “If I see you start going loopy, I’ll give you a Wet Willie.”

“What in Eru’s name is that?”

She gave him a slightly wicked grin before sucking on her pinky finger, then rose on her tiptoes to jam it into his left ear.

He couldn’t help a wordless noise of disgust, recoiling. “That is _revolting_.”

“Distracted you, didn’t it?” she asked, attempting innocence and failing utterly.

“I think I would prefer it if you kissed me,” he said dryly. “You are more than distracting then.”

“Yeah, but that’s _positive_ distraction,” she pointed out. “It’s less likely to make you behave than getting a finger covered in spit in your ear.”

“You are a disgusting creature,” he said, glowering down at her. “And yet I find myself wanting to pull all your clothes off.”

“Not in front’v an audience. Wait until tonight.”

“Provided you are not too exhausted to move, I will hold you to that.”

\--

Sharley stood in a remote plane of Alaskan scrubland, staring at an empty patch of ground that would not be empty much longer. There was a slight, frigid breeze, the snow glittering in the morning sunlight, but she barely noticed either.

 _“You have to let it happen, don’t you?”_ Sinsemilla asked gently.

“Yes,” Sharley said, closing her eyes. Her grief and guilt were so intense that she wished, oh so much, that she could still cry. “It may well destroy her, and I have to let it happen.” Out of all the dozens of potentialities she could see, one of the things they all pivoted on was Lorna – more specifically, what Lorna would be able to do, and what she couldn’t do now.

It would be so very easy for Sharley to kill Von Ratched, to snap his neck and spare hundreds of thousands of people so very much pain, and she _couldn’t_. Too much that had to happen revolved around him. She could see it – see all the potentialities he might cause, and she knew of no way to accomplish any of it without him.

Over the course of her life, there had been far too many Sharley was able to save, yet couldn’t. She didn’t dare. She was about as useless as a quasi-deity could be, able to see but unable to influence much of anything. And because of that, so many would suffer.

She opened her eyes. For four decades she’d sat back – hadn’t dared interfere. She’d told Julifer and Miranda that the consequences of her interference could be disastrous, but not this time.

 _“You’re gonna try anyway, aren’t you?”_ Layla asked.

“I have to,” Sharley said grimly. “There has to be another way. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t try.”

 _“I hope you know what you’re doing,”_ Jimmy said.

“Of course I don’t,” she muttered. “I never do.”

She couldn’t avert it entirely – not without risking damage she had no idea how to fix – but maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad.

\--

Getting all of the unconscious people to the dungeons was annoying, but they managed it eventually, and then it was back to the fray in the DMA again.

At least the fray had lessened even further, allowing Lorna to fetch and carry more easily while Thranduil translated for Lord Elrond.

She all but ran, literally, into Sveta, who looked to be in no good mood. Though they were indoors, she wore a pair of dark sunglasses.

“Albinism and fluorescent lights don’t mix,” she said, when Lorna asked. “Nuala’s awake. You and that Lord Thranduil need to go talk to her.”

Lorna ran to grab him, and the pair followed Sveta through the busy hallways. Having Thranduil with her was really a great help, because she didn’t have to kick or elbow anyone.

Nuala, she found, was even paler than normal, bruise-dark rings beneath her eyes, which were deeply haunted. Her doctor from earlier pulled them aside at the door.

“I was right,” she said, though she didn’t sound happy about it. “Does she have any more family than her sister? She might need them.”

“The village is her family,” Lorna said. “We’ll take care’v her. She’s safe.”

“I don’t think you’ll like what she has to say,” the doctor warned, standing aside to let them through.

“Somehow, that does not surprise me,” Thranduil said, desert-dry.

Molly sat beside Nuala, looking ready to shank anyone who upset her. They had, Lorna knew, lost both parents quite young, and Molly had looked out for her baby sister ever since.

“There’s a place,” Nuala said, without preamble. “A cold place, and that Von Ratched bastard, but I don’t know where. He’s got some like us there, or will do. There’s…” She hesitated. “Lord Thranduil, something’s going to make you very, very angry. I don’t know what, or when, but when it happens, try not to kill anyone. Or at least, no one who doesn’t deserve it. Christ, I want Sharley. So much’v this makes no _sense_.”

“She would, I think, already be here, were she able to come,” Thranduil said. “I fear to speculate what may be keeping her busy. She is not a stable creature, and from what little I have felt of her power, neither is it. Ally she may be, but I am uncertain how much help I would wish her to give. It could, I suspect, do more harm than good.”

“You’ll hate me for that, in the end.”

Lorna jumped, and even Thranduil twitched. “God _dammit_ , Sharley!” she said. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Those odd, sorrowful, mismatched eyes found hers. “It means I know what’s coming to you,” she said. “I’ll try to mitigate it, but I can’t stop it. I don’t know how – not without blowing a hole in reality. But I want you to know, going forward, that I’m not just gonna sit by and let this happen without doing what I can.”

“Is there any chance you could actually _tell_ me anything?” Lorna asked, dread stirring in her chest.

Sharley reached out and touched her face, but though her fingers were icy, there was no horror in it. Instead, it was weirdly maternal. “There are some things I can’t change,” she said. “Even if I told you – even if you did things differently, and didn’t leave your caverns for the rest of your life, it would still happen. Von Ratched might not be anywhere near as strong as your husband, but he is incredibly cunning.” 

Her gaze flicked to Thranduil. “Don’t underestimate him just because he’s human. I’ve done what I can to make sure he won’t remember any of you, but I’m not a telepath.”

“ _Why_ can you not just kill him?” Thranduil demanded.

“Again, hole in reality,” Sharley said patiently. “He’s too caught up in _every_ potential future – as is your wife, and as are you. to be totally blunt, he can do things that you can’t, and that Lorna _won’t_. There are some things only a sociopath would be willing to handle.”

“What about my sister?” Molly asked. “Can you help her?”

Sharley shook her head. “She is not what I am,” she said. “She doesn’t see in the same way that I do, and if I tried to show her, it would drive her insane. You might not be what she is, either, but you can help her better than anyone else. You’re family.”

She looked again at Lorna, those icy fingers still so oddly maternal it was almost painful. “You’re strong, Lorna Donovan,” she said. “If I fuck this up – if I can’t avert it enough – remember that you’re strong.”

“Sharley,” Thranduil said, a very odd note in his voice, “should I lose my temper – should I abuse this ring – could you stop me?”

Her eyes found his again. “Yes,” she said quietly, “but that doesn’t mean I will. If I thought you could go _too_ far with it, I never woulda given you all its power. You’re a good person, Thranduil Oropherion, for all you’re a ruthless asshole. And if it comes down to it…there might come a time you have to kill more people. Just try not to enjoy it.”

And with that she was gone, as though she had never been. Silence followed, until Lorna pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Fuck a duck,” she muttered. If Sharley’s intent had been to scare the shit out of everyone, she’d succeeded. 

“You are so very eloquent, Firieth Dithen,” Thranduil said, pulling her close. “However, I find I could put it no better myself.”

She sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. Though of being separated from him was unbearable, but it sounded like she was meant to be, unless she could find some way to avert the future.

“Stay in the halls, Lorna,” he said, running his fingers through her hair. “I will build a door between them and the DMA, and we will _all_ stay. I care not what Sharley says – nothing enters my halls against my will. Cunning is not enough.”

Lorna wanted to believe him – she couldn’t imagine how he could possibly be wrong, but Sharley had sounded pretty definite. Yes, Von Ratched was only human, and in terms of sheer power, Thranduil could squash him like a bug, but just how smart _was_ he? He knew that he couldn’t get into her head, so she doubted he’d waste time trying, but she had an uneasy feeling he might circumvent Thranduil simply by dint of knowing far more about the modern world.

Shit.

“I need to practice my telekinesis, if I can figure out how,” she said. She probably couldn’t beat him, inexperienced as she was, but he somehow grabbed her with his, she needed to be able to get away. If she threw enough shit at him, it might break his concentration, if nothing else.

“He will not get in,” Thranduil said, in a voice that would brook no argument. “In the five thousand years I have lived in these halls, nothing has ever breached my doors, and nothing ever will.”

Lorna hoped he was right, but she was worried nevertheless. It never hurt to be prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a running theme in the M books – if Von Ratched wants something badly enough, he’s going to get it, and it’s inevitably going to _completely_ blow up in his face (literally, in one case). Unfortunately for Thranduil, he doesn’t have any idea how tricky Von Ratched really is, for all his power is much weaker. There’s a reason everyone in the M universe is fucking terrified of him. On the other hand, he's got no idea what he's facing in Thranduil and Lorna. Elves are entirely outside his experience, and he's smart enough to realize he doesn't know anywhere near enough to confront one directly, and Lorna is...well, Lorna. If she can't overpower him, she can annoy him to death. 
> 
> (She tries in _Curse of M_ , but her power at the time is weaker than it is now, and it eventually ends...badly. As in, she-didn't-conceive-her-children-willingly badly. This time around she already has the twins, and Sharley's doing all that Sharley can, so perhaps her fate in the Institute won't be quite so terrible.) On the other hand, Sharley absolutely _sucks_ at what she does, so it might well be worse. There really is a reason she tries not to meddle; when she thinks of herself as a very powerful deity who can't do shit, she's not wrong. In the M canon, she goes through five books before she _stops_ being wrong.
> 
> Note: I speak no Welsh at all. Everything Lorna says is from Google Translate, but given that her Welsh is supposed to be terrible, it works. Sindarin really is partially based on Welsh.
> 
> Title means ‘Potential’ in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with life and rainbows. Mmm, rainbows.


	40. Rioscaí

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forty chapters. Goddamn.
> 
> In which both Von Ratched and Sharley are busy, Lorna and Thranduil are adorable (and not creepy, for once), and Thranduil does something a number of people will ultimately regret.

Von Ratched did not linger long in Ireland. Preparations needed to be made, and for that ne needed funding. He’d lurked within the American government for nearly seventy years – they would give him what he wished.

Meanwhile, he had a network to create.

Sharley, damn her, had scoured most of his time within the DMA from his memory – but, though she’d watched him like a hawk, she hadn’t kept him out of _every_ mind. He’d planted a pathway into two, and it was that which he used now.

Currently, he sat in a very expensive hotel room in Washington D.C., watching a leaden sky through a rain-streaked window. With only two people, this might well take months, but he was nothing if not patient.

The Gifted, if they could be called such, were no longer confined to Ireland. It was true that there were very few of them so far, but there would, he was certain, be more. He would have his Institute, and his subjects – and he would have that tiny woman with the unearthly eyes. He no longer knew her name, but the ghost of the contact she’d made with his mind remained. She was a telepath, and he would know no true rest until he had dissected her Gift and her psyche – and possibly the rest of her, should she prove too uncooperative.

It was doubtful she would, however. Everyone had their breaking point.

\--

The next fortnight saw no repercussions from the government, so the villagers crept out to retrieve everything they had not already brought with them. The weather had calmed, the sun had returned, and it would have been an enjoyable outing, if not for the decaying corpses.

One of them was sprawled on Mairead’s front lawn, and she tried not to look at it, for the sight was sobering as well as sickening. For all she wanted Lord Thranduil to kill all of those bastards, she found she could barely stand to see the ones that he had offed.

And he could have killed all of them. She’d known that already, but not until now had she truly comprehended what that meant. He could have murdered fifty people without so much as touching them, and only now did she realize how truly _terrifying_ that was. What more could he do? Just how far did his – his _range_ extend?

And what in bloody hell would happen if he _really_ got mad?

She shook herself, and went inside to pack. After several weeks in the halls, her house seemed too small now – and too exposed. At first, being underground had made her uneasy, but now it was being topside that made her nervous. How long would it take her to feel safe under open sky again?

“Bit weird, isn’t it, being outside?”

Mairead jumped. She didn’t know if it was conscious or not, but it seemed Lorna was taking lessons in walking too bloody silently from that husband of hers. “Aren’t you meant to stay in the caverns?”

“Thranduil’s upstairs, and I needed to see the sun before I got stuck underground for God knows how long. At least I’ve got the DMA to head to if I get bored. I need more condoms anyway,” Lorna said.

Mairead ran a despairing hand over her face, which had to be flaming. “Lorna, you…all right, I’ve got to ask, just once: how can you two even…you know, manage? And for Christ’s sake, no details.”

Lorna burst out laughing. “Mairead, allanah, there’s more positions than just missionary.”

“Well, yes, I know _that_ , but he’s so tall, and you’re so small, and – well, I’d think it would hurt,” Mairead said, her words trailing off into a mumble.

Lorna only laughed harder. “It sure as hell does the next day, but I can’t say more without giving you details you don’t want.”

“Please don’t,” Mairead groaned. “So long as you’re not getting hurt.”

“Quite the opposite,” Lorna said, with a smirk that was a little too much like Lord Thranduil’s for comfort.

“Forget I asked, and go crate up the rest’v your stuff.” Christ, how was this her life?

She pulled her mobile out of her coat pocket, turning it on for the first time since they’d gone underground. Surprisingly, it had two bars, but she hesitated to use it. Couldn’t the government trace mobiles, or was that just a thing on TV? It was probably best not to find out. They’d been left alone these two weeks – no sense tempting Fate. She shut it off again, and left it on the kitchen counter. 

There wasn’t a great deal left to move, but most of the things there _were_ , were on the heavy side, like the sofa. Did they really need it? Lord Thranduil’s furniture was more comfortable – but it wasn’t _hers_. It was the same reason she used her own pillowcases, her own dishes. Lord Thranduil’s halls and things were beautiful, but it was an ancient, almost remote sort of beauty, still filled with the ghost-memories of its long-departed occupants. There was nothing human in it, and there had to be, if the villagers could truly call it home. Given that God knew how long they’d be there, it had to _become_ home.

Lorna descended the stairs again, awkwardly lugging a cardboard carton that was far too large for her. Though it had been two months since her C-section, she still shouldn’t be carrying anything that heavy, but there was no point telling her so. She was too stubborn for her own good.

“Thranduil says he’s got some seeds from the DMA,” she said, dropping the carton on the kitchen table. “Come spring, if the government’s not all over us like a cheap suit, we can plant some crops.”

Mairead highly doubted they’d be left alone that long, but she could hope. She didn’t really know just what they were dealing with in the government, but she knew even less.

Speak of the devil, he descended behind Lorna, bearing an even larger carton. Even within his halls, he was reluctant to let her out of his sight – it was a good thing they were newlyweds, or he might well have driven her insane by now. 

“Lorna, are we honestly bringing everything you own?” he asked.

“Given that our move seems to be permanent, yes. I bought most’v it with money I actually earned.”

He might not see the significance of that, but Mairead did. She doubted Lord Thranduil knew very much about Lorna’s early life – but even if he did, he probably wouldn’t understand. He still didn’t know enough about the modern world.

Maybe, Mairead thought, that was a good thing. If he knew what sort of horrific things humans were capable of doing to one another, he might not want anything to do with them.

Then again, no one else had that ring of his. She was pretty sure he could do worse things with it than even the lowest of humanity, if he chose.

\--

Weeks passed, and Sharley lurked in Alaska, watching the slow rise of Von Ratched’s Institute.

She couldn’t prevent the thing being built, but she _could_ sneak in at night to tweak it. Maybe Lorna had to come here, but that didn’t mean she had to actually be _stuck._ It wasn’t like Von Ratched could find out about the modifications from her mind.

And oh, the chaos the other inmates could cause. If she set up enough passages and cubby-holes, it would take Von Ratched _months_ to find them all – and if she had her way, he wouldn’t have months. In one atrophied potentiality, he’d tortured his inmates for nearly a year, but she didn’t mean to leave them with him anywhere near that long.

 _“Just stop the whole damn thing,”_ Kurt said. _“You don’t_ know _that you’ll blow a hole in reality.”_

 _“She doesn’t know that she_ won’t, _either, you assclown,”_ Jimmy said witheringly. _“D’you wanna risk that? ’Cause_ I _don’t. I like existing, ’kay thanks bye.”_

“If I thought I had a chance in hell of pulling it off, I would,” Sharley said quietly, firing up a blowtorch. “What’s coming…there’s too many possibilities that need Von Ratched or someone like him. Better the devil you know.”

 _“You really don’t want some unknown person?”_ Layla asked. _“This is_ Von Ratched. _You’re not gonna find anyone worse.”_

“He’s not unknown,” Sharley said grimly, “and he could be _way_ worse. At least Von Ratched’s human.”

Wonder of wonders, there was actually silence.

 _“What?”_ Kurt asked flatly. _“Why the fuck did you give Thranduil that ring, if you thought he could do shit with it?”_

 _“And you told him you didn’t think he would,”_ Layla added.

“I _don’t_ think he would – not intentionally. What’s coming…Von Ratched does it by accident, but he’s enough of a sociopath to handle the consequences. Thranduil’s a hardass, but he’s not a sociopath. It would destroy him. And then Lorna would find a way to murder me for good this time.” Which was not exactly an unappealing prospect, but still.

What she didn’t say – what she _couldn’t_ say – was that if it wasn’t Von Ratched or Thranduil, it would have to be her. And she could be so much worse than either.

\--

When Saoirse started crawling, Lorna almost missed it.

They’d both learned to sit up several weeks ago, and turn over last week (which she suspected was backward, but it didn’t seem to hurt), and she’d thought they would have more time before either actually became mobile.

She was lying stretched out on the sofa before the fire, eyes closed, listening to Thranduil run a bath while the twins basked on the floor beside her. They had always been unnervingly quiet, with little in the way of the nonsensical baby babble she’d thought was normal, but Thranduil reasoned that, between him and her, they’d probably inherited telepathy. Very strong telepathy.

In any event, she didn’t actually hear Saoirse move over the chugging of the tap, but she _felt_ it – when she opened her eyes, she found her daughter making a drunken but determined beeline for the bathroom.

“Holy _shit_!” Lorna all but fell off the couch, scrambling after the baby. “Thranduil, get out here – Saoirse’s mobile, God help us.”

Get out there he did, and his expression was one she’d never yet seen on him. There had been wonder in his eyes before – when he’d felt them kick for the first time, when they’d got the twins into the surgery once they’d crashed into it – but this was beyond wonder. This was a level of raw, naked emotion that even she had rarely seen from him.

He scooped Saoirse up, and she immediately grabbed his hair, tugging hard.

“They need leashes,” Lorna said, picking up Shane. “Christ, we’ve got to baby-proof this room. And what about these walkways? We’ve got to make sure they can’t somehow get the door open while we’re asleep.” Even thought of them crawling out made her shudder.

“Breathe, Firieth Dithen,” Thranduil said. “Save the worry for when they start walking.”

“When will _that_ be?” The thought was horrifying, though not as horrifying as his answer:

“Perhaps another four months. _Then_ we will need leashes.”

Lorna groaned, collapsing onto the sofa. Strangely, she was terrified now in a way she hadn’t been since she was pregnant. Now that they could actually move, there was all sorts of trouble they could get into.

“They will be _fine_ , Lorna,” Thranduil said, sitting beside her. “They will understand us soon. If we tell them not to run off, they will not.”

“Unless they’re anything me,” Lorna said, stroking Shane’s downy head. “I couldn’t sit still as a kid. It’s a wonder I hadn’t got myself killed before I turn five.”

“Lorna, did neither of your parents truly look after you?” Thranduil asked, wrapping his free arm around her shoulders.

“Mam tried, but Da…the less said about _him_ , the better. Sometimes I think I saw what she could’ve been like, if not for him, but I think he broke her long before I was born. The four’v us sort’v raised ourselves.” She paused. “When I ran away, I lived with a gang – you know that. I’d like – I want to try to find them, if we can, and bring them here. Shane, he’s only six years older than I am, but he’s the closest thing to a proper da I ever had. Maybe they’re dead or in prison, but I want to try.”

Thranduil sighed, winding a lock of her hair through his fingers. “Your life is so alien to me, Firieth Dithen,” he said. “We can look, but are you truly prepared for what we might find?”

“No,” Lorna admitted, “but I’ve got to look anyway. They were more family than my real family, and if we can get them safe, we need to.”

“What of your brothers and sister?”

She shut her eyes. The thought was almost too painful to be borne, but she owed it to them. “Them too, though sure God that’ll be hard. If we find them, somebody’s got to go get them – and it sure as hell can’t be you. They’d run away and hide. It ought to be me, but I don’t bloody dare go _anywhere._ Christ, I hope Sharley succeeds at whatever the fuck she’s doing. It’s beautiful down here, but I don’t fancy spending the rest’v my life away from the sun.”

“I trust her to try,” he said. “I do not trust her to succeed. What I felt of her power – she is… _wrong_. Her very existence feels like an abomination. She has more power than any one creature should possess, and that unsettles me.”

“ _You’ve_ got plenty, with that ring.” A thought occurred to her, and she sat back to look at him. “Von Ratched’s coming for me,” she said. “I know he is, and I know I’m not strong enough to beat him. Is there any way I could sort’v…tap into your ring’s power?”

Thranduil ran his fingers through her hair. “I doubt it,” he said, “but we could try. I still do not understand why you think he will break my doors.”

“He probably won’t,” Lorna said, resting her head on his shoulder, “but I don’t know want to stay down here the rest’v my life. Apparently I’ve got to confront him sooner or later, and I did it right now, I’d lose.”

“Firieth Dithen, I am honestly somewhat insulted you do not trust me to protect you.”

She sighed. “It’s a human thing,” she said. “We like to know how to protect ourselves, even if we don’t have to. I’ve looked after myself all my life. Von Ratched’s just a bigger bully. Literally,” she added. “Until I met you, I hated tall people. Apparently you’re still one of two exceptions – Big Jamie’s all right, too.”

“And why am I an exception?” he asked, tracing the shell of her ear.

“You don’t make me feel small. _Short_ , yeah, but not small, if that makes any sense. Most people, when I first meet them, look at me and dismiss me – which has saved my arse more than once, so I can’t exactly complain. You – even when I first met you, you _saw_ me. Christ, I half though you were reading my bloody soul. I don’t think I’d’ve let you seduce me if you’d looked at me like everyone else, no matter _how_ good a kisser you are.”

Thranduil smirked, rising and laying the now-sleeping Saoirse into her bassinet. “Sometimes I fear you will leave me,” he said, sobering. “If you knew all that lurked in my mind, you would flee and never look back.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” Lorna said, laying Shane beside his sister. “I know you’re possessive as hell, Thranduil, but I also know you’re working on it. If you _weren’t_ trying, that’d be another story, but you are.”

“I would kill for you, Lorna,” he said, his pale eyes serious and hard. “Anyone outside of this village, I would murder for harming you.”

That would probably be a lot more disturbing if she hadn’t already expected it. As it was… “I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t do the same,” she admitted. She’d had more than one nightmare about the government somehow getting hold of him, in spite of his ring. If that somehow ever happened in reality – it wasn’t to be thought of. She didn’t know how far she’d actually go, and hoped she need never find out.

If they stayed where they were, neither would have to worry about it. Lorna had no desire to travel, especially with the twins so young, and it wasn’t like it was safe for anyone anyway.

“Nothing’ll happen to either of us,” she said, scooting forward to wrap her arms around him. “The twins’ll be safe in here forever.”

She paused, nearly purring when Thranduil drew her closer. “I don’t want to be forever wondering what Von Ratched might do,” she said. “We know he’s out there – why don’t we just hunt the bastard down and have done with it? You’ve got that ring, so it’s not like his telekinesis would work on you. Sharley herself said she’s not _sure_ what’ll happen.”

“It is, as you might say, tempting Fate, Firieth Dithen. I would go by myself, if you would consent to it,” he said, running his thumb up and down her spine.

“You’re seriously asking my permission?” Love him though she might, Lorna had long known that Thranduil pretty much did what Thranduil wanted.

“I know that you would fear for me, for all I can more than take care of myself,” he said dryly. “Much as I would love to run that man to ground, I will not go if it will distress you.”

Much as she wanted to keep him glue to her side forever, it wouldn’t be fair. He’d been a warrior once, and she suspected that instinct remained. Realistically, if anyone had a chance of dealing with Von Ratched, it was Thranduil.

“Don’t go out for long,” she sighed, pressing her forehead against the side of neck, breathing in the rich scent of him. “If you haven’t found him in a week, come home. I’ll worry less if I know when you’ll be back.”

He took gentle hold of her shoulders, sitting her up.”But you do not want me to go.”

“No, but _you_ want to,” she said. The firelight played over his face, staining his hair red-gold. “You can take care’v yourself, and I know you won’t be able to stand sitting and waiting around. I’ll practice my telekinesis while you’re hunting, but in a week, come home. I won’t be able to stand not knowing when you’ll be back.”

He gave her a smile that was at once sorrowful and grateful, and pulled her in for a kiss. “You understand me a little too well, Firieth Dithen.”

“I try, Drag Queen Barbie. I try.”

He pulled her in for another kiss, deeper this time, nipping at her lower lip. Lorna sat back, slightly scandalized. “Thranduil, the twins are _right there_ ,” she said.

“And they are asleep,” he said, with a smirk that made her uncertain if she wanted to smack him or kiss him again. “They are not yet old enough to know what we are doing – especially if we are quiet.”

“You’re a bloody menace,” she said, but let him pull her to her feet.

“No, I believe you bear that title,” he said, picking her up. “Now hush. If we are to be apart for a week, I would make the most of our time together.”

\--

Von Ratched’s small network had grown.

Two minds became six, then twenty. Each person he mentally infected passed that infection on to each they touched, a silent plague known only to him.

He had a great deal of information on the DMA, but it was a leviathan he did not wish to tackle yet. Taking it down, just now, would be more trouble than it was worth – safely, he would need at least another year. For now, he had three prizes nearer to home.

He found the name of the telepath through the chain that ran to one Siobhan Murphy, pyrokinetic. Lorna was her name, Lorna Donovan, and she, Siobhan, and the precog name Nuala were all coming with him.

In truth, the precog was a much greater find, but Von Ratched had always wished to locate another telepath. That he apparently couldn’t get into Donovan’s mind was an irritant, to be sure, but he would find a way around it, in time.

The trick was getting past her blasted husband.

Through Siobhan, Von Ratched knew exactly where Thranduil’s halls were, but a direct confrontation with the Elf would likely be suicide. Though it galled him to admit that there were beings in this world more powerful than him, Von Ratched was nowhere near stupid enough to deny it. He did not know just how powerful his foe was, so facing him person-to-person was not an option.

In the end, to his utter, silent glee, Thranduil did it for him.

The Elf must have supreme confidence in the security of his halls, or he would never have left. Von Ratched waited a day, to make certain he would not return, and commandeered a Congressman’s private jet to Ireland.

He’d have his prizes. And no one would ever find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil, you are going to regret the _hell_ out of leaving. Though not as much as Lorna will – or, honestly, Von Ratched. He has no idea just what he’s trying to grab.
> 
> Title means “Risks” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with warm fuzzies.


	41. Shudder Roimh an Álainn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in the books, Von Ratched does some utterly horrific things, but I’ve chosen not to go into details in this story. It might lessen the impact, but this fic is for more or less general consumption, and I know there are a lot of people who really don’t like that sort of thing. Von Ratched is an extraordinarily cruel man with very few qualms; I leave the worst of what he does to the reader’s imagination. (Possibly his only two virtues are that he does not harm children, and he doesn’t just torture his inmates for shits and giggles. As Terry Pratchett might put it, he doesn’t have morals, but he _does_ have standards. Until he meets Lorna.) If you want to know what he’s _really_ like, check out _The Curse of M._
> 
> In which Von Ratched has no idea what he’s getting himself into, Lorna is a teensy bit scary, and Thranduil gets very, very angry.

Thranduil and his ring left the next morning, and Lorna spent the next two days jittery as hell, unable to focus on much of anything.

She decide to do something useful, and practice her telekinesis while he was away. She took the twins and a number of oddments to one of the training halls – the ground was flat, and there was nothing they could get into if they managed to scoot while her back was turned. Saoirse could be alarmingly fast.

Nuala had offered to go with her, but just now she needed to be alone. She had to keep repeating to herself, over and over, that Thranduil was better-equipped to take care of himself than anybody else on this planet.

She, at the moment, was not. The telekinetic facet of her Gift seemed, at the moment, to be crapping out on her. She’d pulled down a helicopter, for fuck’s sake; why was she so pants at it now? In front of her lay a line of random objects – plates, mugs, some of Thranduil’s heavier books, a pair of boots, and a load of laundry she didn’t know how to wash here. So far, the heaviest thing she’d managed to shift at all was a plate. What the hell was she doing wrong?

If she squinted just right, she could see faint lines around each object, and she tried to grab at them with her hands. This did approximately fuck-all, so she followed her instinct and reached with her mind instead.

She could feel the contact, but, to her mounting frustration, only the plate did more than budge. It wobbled, hovering perhaps six inches above the ground before she lost hold of it.

“Dammit,” she grumbled. She _could_ do it, or had been able to. There wasn’t anyone who could teach her that she actually wanted to deal with – in this, she was completely on her own.

Saoirse crawled into her lap, and Lorna stroked the girl’s hair. It really was every bit as pale as Thranduil’s, and as soft. Shane still hadn’t mastered crawling, but he was happily rolling about on a blanket.

“What am I doing wrong, you two? Or is telekinesis really that useless?” She doubted it, but it suddenly occurred to her that she _wasn’t_ doing anything wrong – the difference between the helicopter and the plate was that with the first, she’d been both terrified and totally infuriated. She hadn’t really been thinking at all.

Her daughter, of course, said nothing, opting instead to chew on her braid. She ought to feed the two of them soon – for babies, they had surprisingly large appetites, and she was glad Molly had brought several crates of baby food.

They had to feed all their prisoners, too, but she’d leave that to the people who could actually cook. Then again, if she tried, she might kill a few through food poisoning.

She packed the twins up in their carriers, and a deep, nauseating sense of _wrong_ shivered through her. Lorna hadn’t lived this long by ignoring her intuition, but in this case she had no idea what the hell she was meant to be afraid of.

She couldn’t leave the twins alone – she’d pass them off on whoever she could find, safe away somewhere. It was possible she was just being paranoid, but her every instinct screamed that something was very, very wrong.

\--

Using Siobhan made getting into Thranduil’s halls almost criminally easy. Under Von Ratched’s direction, she imply came and opened the door for him, docile as a kitten.

There were nearly three hundred people scattered throughout the caverns. Severing their consciousnesses was easy enough – all save his trio of quarry, whom he would prefer left under their own power.

There were four minds who remained aware – the other Elves, surely. He had no wish to deal with any of them, but he would if he had to.

Walking through these vast caves did something nothing else in his life had ever managed: it unsettled him. This was by far the oldest pace he had ever entered, frozen in time in spite of its more recent occupants. He wished he need not be Lord Thranduil’s enemy, for there were so many questions he would ask.

Nuala came to him, while he wandered among trees both stone and living, past misty, icy waterfalls. Lorna would present a challenge, though he doubted she would offer much of one. Her Gift was too new for her to know what to do with it; she was more likely to hurt herself than him. Or so he thought.

Through Siobhan, he knew of Lorna’s children. He should have expected maternal rage.

She faced him in the open, suicidal as that was, in a wide, stony area among a trickling creek. Tiny, breakable, all but defenseless, her jeans and T-shirt comically large, yet something about her made him pause.

She was not a particularly lovely woman, and she certainly couldn’t be called physically intimidating, yet in that moment, her eyes, green as poison and bright as stars, there was something not entirely human about her. Surely she had no idea the level of power she could have at her command, or she would have attacked him by now.

“Hoe, don’t do it,” she said. Her voice intrigued him; strangely deep for so small a woman, her accent hard-edged Dublin.

“Do you truly think you can stop me, Lorna Donovan?” he asked, unable to keep the amusement from his tone. He caught her with his telekinesis, almost lazily – but she must have expected it, for she didn’t struggle. “Can you even use your telekinesis?”

“Sometimes,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “For you, I’m sure’v it.”

\--

He was in her home. He was _in_ her fucking _home_. Why, oh _why_ had Lorna given Thranduil the go-ahead to leave?

Siobhan and Nuala stood to his sides, in the way, immobile and zombie-eyed in the face of her rage. And oh, she _was_ angry, so infuriated that her vision was limned in red, blood churning magma-hot in her veins.

How dare this smug son of a bitch just waltz into her home, reaching for her friends? _How fucking dare he?_

She felt it now – the surge of power that eluded her when she was calm. He caught her with his telekinesis, but she didn’t need to move, not physically. Rather than fight it, she threw Siobhan and Nuala aside, not as gently as she ought, the grip of her wrath seeking and finding the great tree-root above them. This was going to hurt like a bitch, but fuck it – it, and him.

Simple gravity assisted when she grabbed and _pulled_ , the wood creaking and groaning, splintering into cracks and finally – well, _exploding._

She couldn’t keep all of it from landing on her, but she threw all that she could at Von Ratched, knowing but not caring that he would likely deflect most of it. It hurt – oh _God_ did it hurt, pain tearing through her head like a chainsaw, but he’d released his grip, leaving her staggering.

The trees – the tree still stood, and she stumbled toward it, reaching. There would be no bringing the whole thing down, but there were oh so many branches, and it was _them_ she sought, feeling out the lines while her head threatened to split apart. She tasted the hot salt of her blood, dripping and then pouring from her nose, but she couldn’t stop, she _couldn’t_.

They creaked and they cracked, the branches, leaves fluttering down like snow, and it hurt it hurt _it hurt_ —

Darkness.

\--

That…Von Ratched had not expected that at all. Her control was almost non-existent – he suspected she had managed some of that by pure luck – but that power….

He surveyed the wreck she’d made, in so short a time – wood pulp everywhere, the scent of it heavy in the air. She had not, fortunately, harmed Nuala, but Siobhan had a visibly broken leg. He could not carry two unconscious women, so she would have to be left behind. Nuala rose when he beckoned, still placid, unaware of the ruin around her.

He picked his way through the splinters, brushing bark and leaves off of Lorna. Her nose was bleeding, and no wonder – to throw that much power around without actually knowing how was an easy way to give yourself an aneurysm. He checked her eyes and found no burst blood vessels – she was simply unconscious. This strange, small woman, beautiful in her power, more dangerous even than she knew….

Oh, he _liked_ this one. They would have quite a bit of fun together.

Well, he would, anyway.

\--

Still in Alaska, seated among snow-covered trees, Sharley pinched the bridge of her nose.

 _“It’s started, hasn’t it?”_ Sinsemilla asked gently.

“It has,” Sharley sighed.

 _“You’ve done everything you can,”_ Layla said. 

“But it might not be enough. There has to be more.” She couldn’t see it yet, any avenues she could change, but that didn’t mean none of would present themselves. “I fucking _hate_ this. What good am I, if I can’t change the future without breaking it?”

Normally, Kurt would have had a snide comment or five, but he kept silent. Even he knew when to leave Sharley alone.

 _“How many potentialities do you see?”_ Sinsemilla asked.

“Four. And none of them end well. Siobhan got lucky, she’s left behind, but Lorna and Nuala…he might have more of a personal interest in Lorna, but Nuala’s the one who’ll get more of his…professional attention.” Sharley wished she knew how to keep Nuala from having any visions while in the Institute, but that was beyond her. If Von Ratched got wind of what was coming – yeah, that would be a problem, and it would leave her scrambling.

Great.

Maybe – and she’d have to look into the potentialities more closely – but maybe she could get away with putting the fear of Sharley into him. He _was_ afraid of her, though he’d die before he’d admit it. If she could spare them – _all_ of them – at least a little pain, she had to try. She’d pay for it later, once the Universe balanced its account books, but at least her conscience would be as clear as she could get it.

\--

When Thranduil went out into the world, he did so in his Edain clothes, his hair stuffed up under the soft hat. He would still stand out by sheer dint of his height, but at least he could pass for Edain.

He doubted Von Ratched would go far from his targets – Sharley had grabbed him from Dublin, and to Dublin he had likely returned. It was unknown just how much he still remembered, but she had said there was a strong chance he remembered _something._

There was just one problem: getting there. Mairead had informed him, in no uncertain terms, that she was driving him.

“Mistress Mairead, the roads are likely still impassible for cars,” he protested.

She gave him a smile that was terrifyingly like her sister. “I know,” she said. “Follow me.”

He did, with deep reservation. In the room where she stored her vehicle, he found—

Oh. Oh, no.

“I won’t crash,” she said, walking the motorcycle out of the garage. “This is Kevin’s, but I’m good on it.”

Thranduil wanted to protest – he really, _really_ did – but she was likely his best chance of getting to Dublin in any reasonable amount of time. “I am going to regret this,” he said, while Mairead turned the thing on.

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” she said, swinging her leg over the seat.

The problem – well, one of the problems – with motorcycles was that he was simply too tall to ride one comfortably. He had noticed that the Edain of modern Ennor were rather taller than those he had known a thousand years ago, but his height still seemed to be unusual.

Still, he sat behind Mairead, and reasoned that now that he knew what to expect, it wouldn’t be so bad.

How very wrong he was.

\--

Getting the two women to Von Ratched’s plane wasn’t easy, because Lorna was shockingly heavy for so small a woman.

She slept, and continued to sleep even while airborne, for he didn’t trust her not to crash the plane into the Atlantic if she were awake. Nuala sat silent, her higher brain function taken temporarily offline. There being nowhere else to put the inert Lorna, she lay on the floor.

He would incapacitate her, and leave her to grow used to her new surroundings while he worked with Nuala. A precog was ever so much more useful, if he could successfully induce her visions. Lorna would be a hobby, once he ensured her cooperation. He had to sever her link to that damn husband of hers, but he would wait until they reached America. The Elf would surely feel it, but he couldn’t be allowed to follow.

Lorna shifted a little in her sleep, frowning. _How_ had she done that? It was quite obvious she had next to no control over it – just what untapped well of rage did this woman have to draw off of? Oh, how he wished he could get into her mind, but she probably couldn’t let him even if she wanted to.

He knelt down and touched her temple, searching, but there was nothing to be found. The wall was possibly more complete than anything even he could have constructed.

Once he knew more about the Elves, what they could and couldn’t do, he would have to see if it was at all possible to incapacitate one. Thranduil was out of the question, thanks to that ring, but there were four others to choose from. Surely there had to be _some_ way – but it was not a thing he dared try until he was absolutely certain.

And then, of course, there was the Sharley factor.

The fact that she had done nothing to stop him made him wary. It was possible – no, it was likely – that she had some other scheme in mind, something she planned to drop on his head at the worst possible moment. As yet, he didn’t know how to deal with her, either. If only he’d killed her when she was his patient.

They had only to get to Alaska, and to the first wing of his Institute. Most of it was still under construction, but part of it was habitable. These two were his first, but more would come, in time.

Lorna shifted in her sleep again, and he brushed a lock of hair out of her face. He knew already she was going to be a problem but strangely, he welcomed it. He was so rarely faced with a true challenge, and her telekinesis…he had to find a way to shut it off, lest she destroy his Institute before it was built.

Well. It was a long flight. He could experiment.

\--

After two days of fruitless hunting, Thranduil was forced to concede that Von Ratched was not, in fact, still in Dublin.

He’d left plenty of _evidence_ – there was tampering the minds of many, especially near the hospital. Thranduil followed a chain of mental manipulation to the thing called an airport – and there he got stuck.

Lorna had taught him most of her alphabet, but he had only seen it in her truly terrible penmanship. He could read little of the writing he saw here – and there was so much chaos he might have learned much, were he able to. When he returned to the halls, she was going to have to show him some actual books.

Unsurprisingly, there was nothing to be found in the minds of any around him, but he spotted several cameras. Surely someone had to be watching them somewhere. He had seen enough movies with security cameras to know there was always a room somewhere, usually with a deeply bored, half-asleep Edain only pretending to keep an eye on them.

This ring really did make it far, _far_ too easy to read minds. Perhaps some echo of its former wielder remained, or perhaps his own ability was stronger than he first thought, but he could slip in and out of others’ thoughts with alarming ease.

There was a great deal of selfishness, of pettiness, of things that bordered on evil, but there was also compassion – those who wished to help, but had no tangible way to offer aid. Fear, and grief, and worry for family and friends. The Edain were a more varied lot than he had realized.

It took around fifteen minutes for him to find what he sought, and then he sat in a tiny room, in a chair formerly occupied by an Edain who slept by his will. The letters on the keyboard meant all but nothing – he recognized t and o, but Lorna’s handwriting must have been even more awful than he thought. He wasted far too much time pressing random keys, the images on the screens flickering from camera to camera outside his control.

Something caught his eye, something that arrested his hands, freezing him in place.

Von Ratched was very tall for an Edain – even in such a crowd, it was easy to pick him out. At his side was a blank-faced Nuala, and in his arms was Lorna. Surely no one else could be seeing them, or someone would be questioning the unconscious woman’s presence.

Thranduil was scarcely aware of the growl in his chest. Why, oh _why_ had he left the halls? The damnable man would have come right to him. He had no way now of knowing how long ago they had passed through here, let alone when or where they had gone.

He would search the airport, just to be safe, and then he would fetch Mairead, and when he found Von Ratched, he would skin the bastard alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how I said nobody was going to be having a good time? Yeah, I meant it. Just wait. Von Ratched has no clue in hell what he’s got himself into. None at all. 
> 
> Title means “Shudder Before the Beautiful” in Irish, mainly because it was this chapter's soundtrack. As ever, your reviews feed my hungry, hungry soul. Om nom nom.


	42. Friotaíocht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna and Thranduil re-establish contact, Von Ratched is a creeper (who begins to realize what exactly he’s got himself into, and likes it), and Thranduil sets many things in motion. Also, the sheer amount of spoken Irish in this chapter just about broke my brain to write. My knowledge of the language is so shaky that this is probably even worse than I normally write it, but hey, I tried.
> 
> Warning: there's brief violence at the end of this chapter, because Lorna is Lorna.

When Lorna woke, she had no idea where she was too busy sicking up to care right away.

She was lying on a rather uncomfortable bed, but at least she managed to roll over fast enough that she sicked upon the floor rather than on it.

 _Christ_ did her head hurt – so very much that at first she couldn’t even try to take in her surroundings. There was a coppery scent in her nose, and when she ran her under it, she found patches of crusty, dried blood. Brilliant.

She squinted against the harsh light of fluorescent bulbs, which only made her headache worse. Where the fuck _was_ she? The last thing she remembered was ripping apart part of the halls—

Oh.

Oh, shit.

She tried to sit up, and immediately regretted it, tossing what was left of her breakfast. Movement was simply not to be thought of.

 _Thranduil_ , she thought, blindly seeking, but she had no idea where she was, nor how far her range might stretch.

Shit – Siobhan and Nuala, where were they? She sought them as well, but she really had no idea what she was doing. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be many minds to seek. Nuala was here, at least in body; she seemed to be asleep. No sign of Siobhan, though.

Oh, shit, what if she’d been killed in Lorna’s…whatever that had been? She’d tried to get the pair out of the way, but given what she’d done, it was probably a miracle she hadn’t killed all of them.

She had to move – had to find out where the hell they were, and how to escape – but her headache was so awful that all she could do was shut her eyes, resting her head on the thin pillow. Christ, what if she’d ruptured a blood vessel or something?

Anger rose within her, or tried to; she was so tired, and in so much pain, that it didn’t get far. God dammit. She’d known she needed to confront Von Ratched, but she’d hoped like hell _this_ wouldn’t happen.

The door opened, but she didn’t bother opening her eyes. “Fuck off.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say to the person bearing your painkillers.”

Von Ratched. Fuck.

Lorna cracked an eye open. “Where the fuck am I?”

“Where you will stay for the moment,” he said, giving her a look that was almost genial. With his creepy-ass eyes, it was more disturbing than anything else. “Now give me your arm.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go with _no_ on that one,” she said. “Seriously, fuck off.”

“You really are an exasperating little creature,” he said, grabbing her wrist. She quite suddenly found she couldn’t move, even when he injected something into her forearm. Another needle followed, and her head swum.

“Believe me or not, Lorna, I do not actually _want_ to hurt you,” he said, releasing her. “That would run quite counter to my objectives. Cooperate and I will not harm you.”

“Why do I not believe that?” she asked. The pain vanished almost instantaneously, a strange, chill sensation creeping up her arm and through her head. God, what did he _give_ her?

“Have I hurt you so far?” he asked, his tone entirely too reasonable.

“How the hell would I know?” she snapped. “I’ve been passed out for God knows how long. For all I know, you stole my kidneys and sold them to fucking Guatemalan drug lords.”

“Profane aren’t you?” he asked, tossing the syringes into a trash bin. “You do know what they say about profanity, do you not?”

“Yeah,” she growled, curling into a ball. At least her stomach was settling. “It’s a crutch for the inarticulate motherfucker.”

He arched an eyebrow – it was something Thranduil often did, but Thranduil was never condescending like this.

“You do realize that once my husband finds you, you’re fucked, right?” Assuming she couldn’t bust her way out first – which, given what using her telekinesis seemed to do to her, was probably a fair assumption.  
Von Ratched gave her a truly unsettling not-smile. “He will not find us,” he said. “Not unless he can trans-locate, which I rather suspect he cannot.”

“I wouldn’t sound so sure’v that. He’s relentless when he’s got a mind to be, and even I’ve got to admit he’s possessive as hell,” she said, for once in her life grateful for that fact. “He won’t stop hunting. Ever. I’ve seen what he can do with that ring – your best bet’s to run now, and keep moving. I’m not sure what he’ll do when he catches you, but you won’t have any fun.” As much as Lorna wanted to get herself out of her own mess, she wouldn’t mind seeing just what a mess Thranduil could make of Von Ratched.

He just kept on with the not-smile, and Lorna wanted to kick him. She was so high and so drowsy, however, that it wouldn’t do much good.

“Rest, Lorna. We will reconvene tomorrow.”

All she managed to do was flip him off, before darkness descended once more.

\--

Thranduil had to borrow a motorcycle and its rider to get back to Lasgaelen, devising all manner of creative tortures for Von Ratched along the way.

The first thing he had to do was stop by the DMA, and put whatever resources they had into finding the bastard to use. How in Eru’s name had he made it into the halls? No one would have opened the door, even assuming they actually heard a knock, and surely he had not breached the DMA.

 _Where are you, Lorna?_ No matter how far away she was, he should still be able to feel her, but he couldn’t. Von Ratched must have severed their link, which was…disquieting. If he could do such a thing, he was stronger than Thranduil had realized.

And Nuala – what would he do to Nuala? Lorna wouldn’t occupy his attention wholly, and her life had toughened her in a way Nuala’s hadn’t. Living in sleepy Lasgaelen, it was doubtful she had known much hardship. She was even less prepared for Von Ratched than Lorna.

Molly would doubtless be as ready to go on the warpath as Thranduil, and he was going to have to put her off somehow. She wasn’t prepared for this, either; none of the villagers were, for all he knew they would want to help. Lorna and Nuala were theirs, and if he had learned anything about this village, it was that they were protective of their own.

He strode now through the empty village, past the decaying corpses, Nenya burning on his finger. There were fresh footprints in the dried mud of the fields, quite sharp in the yellowish light. They had to be Von Ratched’s, and likely Nuala’s as well. There was no way the man would have managed to drag Lorna anywhere, were she conscious.

The man had gone through his forest, into his halls, and taken his wife and one of his people. He had simply _strolled in_ …

When Thranduil reached the halls, he discovered that perhaps it wasn’t so simple after all. He had to push through some very disturbed people, but he found a scene of utter devastation.

Splinters and wood pulp drifted across the ground like snow, dotted with leaves. Von Ratched, from all Thranduil had seen of him, wasn’t the type to be so heavy-handed; Lorna, it would seem, had not gone down without an impressively destructive fight.

“What happened here?” he demanded of Big Jamie, whose normally ruddy face was rather pale.

“We don’t know,” he said. “We all passed out, and then we found _this_ –and Siobhan, with a broken leg.”

That was probably the only reason the mercifully fortunate woman had been left behind. She’d be grateful, once he told her what she’d missed.

“No sign of Lorna or Nuala, though everyone else is accounted for. Don’t know what the other Elves might know, since we can’t exactly talk to them.” The big man looked quite wretched.

“Let me handle that. Go, all of you.” They scattered like chickens as he strode past.

He should never, ever have left. No, Von Ratched could not have got in on his own, but someone – someone he had doubtless been controlling – had _let_ him… All Thranduil could think was that Lorna had not wanted him to leave. In his urge to hunt, he had left her vulnerable, though ‘vulnerable’ was not an easy word to assign her.

Von Ratched would not kill her, but Thranduil had little doubt he would torture her and Nuala, should he feel the need. Lorna might be able to withstand some, but he doubted Nuala would – though Nuala was also more likely to cooperate. Lorna was possibly incapable of cooperation, and doubtless she would pay for it.

As he’d suspected, he found Elrond and his family in the private study. The twins looked distinctly nervous, but Elrond and Celebrían remained stoic. It would take far more than Thranduil’s temper to unsettle either of them.

“We felt it,” Elrond said, without preamble, “but it was over before we could so much as reach the entrance.”

“You likely could have done little even if you had,” Thranduil said, heading at once for his wine cabinet. “Against our minds, Von Ratched stands no chance, but he has something we do not. Without this ring, I could not fight his telekinesis.”

“What _is_ that?” Celebrían asked.

“The ability to move things with one’s mind,” he said, pouring five glasses. He felt, now, strangely still, wrath both cold and hot somehow perfectly balanced. “Lorna has it, too. That mess near the entrance is likely her doing. She can barely control it, or I suspect she and Nuala would still be here.” When he got her back, that was going to change. Somehow, they would find a way to train her.

“What are you going to do?” Elrond asked, and _now_ there was wariness in his tone.

Thranduil downed half his glass at one go, the burn of the liquid doing nothing at all to soothe him. “Hunt that creature down,” he said. “I have yet to decide if I will skin him or burn him alive.”

Elrond and Celebrían exchanged a glance, but made no comment. Instead, she said, “I have an idea. My mother’s Mirror was linked to Nenya’s power. Perhaps we may use it to create another.”

Thranduil’s eyes met hers with such intensity that she flinched a little. “Could we?”

“We may _try_ ,” she emphasized firmly. “I warn you now that I cannot promise it will work. I am still uncertain how much the Mirror drew directly from her, without Nenya. Her mental gifts were considerable even without aid.”

Unfortunately, that was very true. And Thranduil’s, though he was adept at manipulating Edain, were most assuredly nowhere _near_ what Galadriel’s had been. Were they, he would need no aid in finding his wife. He would already know exactly where she was. “We must try,” he said. “But first, I must speak with the DMA. It may be that they can aid me.” He didn’t hold out much hope, but it had to be done anyway.

_I will find you, Lorna. Try not to get killed before I do._

\--

All it took was one glance out a window for Lorna to realize how truly fucked she and Nuala were.

The window was covered with metal grillwork, but she still saw the endless plane of empty white, rendered featureless by heavy snow. Not only did she not even know what continent she was on, it looked like she’d have a hell of a time getting anywhere when she escaped. She and Nuala would freeze if they tried to go anywhere on foot.

She couldn’t read Von Ratched’s mind, but there had to be other staff here, right? He couldn’t run this whole place by himself, and she was pretty sure she’d felt at least one other mind here during her first search. Somebody had cooked the surprisingly good dinner she and Nuala had eaten, and she doubted it was him.

He _was_ the one who drugged her again, doping her with something she was fairly sure ought to make her more than just slightly sluggish. Lorna carefully pretended it got her high – there was no way he could know about her rather extensive history of drug use, or he’d be giving her a higher dose of whatever it was.

He refused to put her and Nuala in the same room to sleep; she found herself in what was much like a prison cell, with an uncomfortable bunk and thin blankets. She curled up with all her clothes on, shivering, and let her mind drift.

_Where are you, Thranduil?_

In a sense, being mildly stoned was actually a help. It meant she could ignore her surroundings, could concentrate purely on her objective: seeking.

_Where are you?_

She thought of him – his laugh, still too seldom heard; his eyes, by turns icy and molten, with anger or desire; the spicy, rich, unnamable scent of him. She always had had a keen sense of smell, and his scent was entirely unique. He could be loving, and tender, and utterly terrifying – even though there were other Elves now, he was still like nothing else on Earth.

 _Where_ are _you?_

She thought, and she sought, whatever passed for her soul reaching out to his. He had their children, at least – the twins were safe with him, safe from Von Ratched. She could only be grateful the bastard hadn’t taken them, too.

_WHERE ARE YOU?!_

It was a mental shout – strident, demanding. Drugged she might be, but she was immensely stubborn, and no silly little thing like _distance_ was going to get in her way, goddammit.

_Lorna?_

She exhaled, slow and deep, relief flooding her. _Finally. Took you long enough._

 _Where are you?_ Oh, he was angry, the heat of his wrath warming her.

_I have no fucking idea. The middle of nowhere. Could be Siberia or the North bloody Pole for all I can tell._

_Are you hurt?_

_No, and neither is Nuala, for now. I’ll get us out as soon as I can, but that might take a bit. Bastard’s got me drugged, though not as drugged as he thinks._ Lorna shut her eyes. Hearing Thranduil’s voice, even mentally, grounded her. She could do this, even if not right away.

_Do not try to escape, Lorna. I will come to you._

She couldn’t help but smile, even as she tried to wrap the scratchy blankets tighter about herself. _Thranduil, allanah, do you really think I can just sit on my arse and do nothing? There’s a way out’v here, and I’ll find it. You look after the twins. If you think there’s anything on this Earth that’ll stop me coming home to you, you’ve no manner of faith in me at all._ She wished that she could see him, could touch him – words, she was sure, would not be nearly reassurance enough.

_The twins are safe. No harm will come to them, whether I am here or not. Be careful, Firieth Dithen. The man is more of a threat than any of us realized, and I do not wish you to give him cause to hurt you._

She couldn’t promise that – she knew herself too well. She would not, however, lie to Thranduil. _I’ll behave if he will_ , she said, trying to make herself mean it. If Lorna had her way, Von Ratched would regret the day he ever laid eyes on her.

_Stay alive, Lorna. I will find you._

_Not if I find you first._

\--

Eventually, Lorna slept, and woke more-or-less clearheaded. She didn’t trust it to last, so she lay tranquil, staring at the speckled ceiling tiles. 

First order of business was finding out who else was here, what sort of staff the place had. Second was sifting through their minds, which she was pretty sure she could still do while drugged. So long as she kept pretending she was more doped than she really was, Von Ratched probably wouldn’t up the dose.

Von Ratched. Christ, she wanted to rip out his kidneys. She had to get her telekinesis under control first, and that she had no fucking idea how to do. She could hardly practice with him around, and it seemed the only thing she had to lift in here was the bed. Shit.

Speak of the devil – there came a perfunctory knock on her door, and the bastard himself entered. Unsurprisingly, he carried a needle.

Lorna blinked, feigning more grogginess than she actually felt. “How long’re you going to keep doping me like this?” she asked, and the slight slur in her voice was _not_ feigned.

“Until I am certain you will cooperate,” he said, seizing her left arm. “Eat breakfast, and then there are a shower and fresh clothes waiting.”

She didn’t like the thought of giving up the clothes she had, but she needed to pick her battles. “Then what?”

“Then you rest, while I work with Nuala.”

Oh, hell no. “Let me stay with her, while you do,” Lorna said. “She’ll be easier to work with if she’s not scared out’v her fucking mind. In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re bloody creepy.”

He arched an eyebrow. “So I have been told,” he said. “You may accompany her, so long as you do not interfere.”

“Define ‘interfere’.” Did he have to look so fucking _smug_? His arrogance was so powerful she could practically smell it.

“I am going to run some tests,” he said, his eyes suddenly cold. “You may hold her hand, but you may not speak to her. And if you try to read her mind, I will know.”

“Like I could do it even if I tried,” Lorna muttered, and it was only half a lie.

“Someday you will learn, once I can trust you,” he assured her, tossing the syringe in the rubbish bin.

She didn’t bother responding – just followed him to the strange little dining-room. It was far too small to be a cafeteria – it looked more like a hospital break-room.

Nuala was picking at waffles, pale even for her. If there was anything save morning sickness that could truly kill Lorna’s appetite, she’d never yet found it, so she scarfed.

“Beidh mé in éineacht leat,” she said, hoping Von Ratched didn’t speak Irish. “Is cuma cad a dhéanann sé, ní bheidh sé Gortaítear.” _I will be with you. Whatever he does, it won’t hurt._

“Conas atá a fhios agat?” Nuala asked, taking a shaky sip of orange juice. _How do you know?_

“Toisc nach mbeidh mé in iúl dó. Iontaobhas dom, Nuala,” Lorna said firmly. _Because I won’t let it. Trust me, Nuala._

“Cad a tharlaíonn má nimhneach sé leat?” _What if he hurts you?_

“Beidh sé brón an ifreann as é. Lig dom a bheith buartha faoi an cac.” _He’ll regret the hell out of it. Let me worry about this shit_. Lorna didn’t dare mention anything at all about escape. If Von Ratched knew she was even thinking of it yet, he might up her drugs to something that was actually debilitating. “Thranduil atá ar a bhealach. Ní mór mé díreach tar éis a choinneáil i píosa amháin go dtí sin.” _Thranduil’s on his way. I just need to keep you in one piece until then._

“Cad mar gheall tú, cé?” Nuala asked again. “Mura bhfuil tú i píosa amháin, beidh sé a mharú _gach duine.” What about you, though? If you’re not in one piece, he’ll kill_ everyone.  
“Gcéad dul síos, tá tú ag ghannmheas a féin-rialú, agus sa dara fomhír, muinín dom. Tá a fhios agam cad tá mé ag déanamh. _First, you’re under-estimating his self-control, and second, trust me. I know what I’m doing._

“An bhfuil tú?” Nuala asked, blatantly dubious. _Do you?_

“Níos mó nó níos lú. Críochnaigh do bhricfeasta diabhal. Ní Déanann tú ní mór siúcra fola íseal ar bharr gach rud eile.” _More or less. Finish your damn breakfast. You don’t need low blood sugar on top of everything else._

Eat Nuala did, while Lorna tentatively searched for other minds, wishing like hell she had something caffeinated. She didn’t dare try to _read_ anyone yet, but she needed to know how many more were here.

Six pinged on her radar, one of whom had to be Von Ratched. Okay. He probably had a nurse or two, and a cook, and somebody had to clean this place. It was probably safe to say none of _them_ were dangerous – Von Ratched seemed like the kind of alpha dickbag that wouldn’t want any other forceful personalities around. He was the big worry.

Well. She’d dealt with bullies all her life. She could do this.

\--

When led to the shower, Lorna was relieved to find it private. She was less pleased by the soft grey trousers and T-shirt she was given to change into afterward – they were a little too much like a prison uniform for her comfort. For shoes, there were thick, soft socks, with rubber lines on the bottom, like those you got in hospital.

Still, the hot water was nice, even if the tiny bottle of conditioner was only going to last one wash. Von Ratched had better have a wide-tooth comb, or she was going to have to make him rather unhappy.

Though she tried to squeeze it dry, the wet mass of her hair still soaked through the back of her shirt, leaving her shivering. Christ, even in prison they’d had the option of a sweatshirt. If she didn’t get out of here fairly soon, she’d freeze to death even indoors.

Von Ratched was patiently waiting in the little break room, an uneasy, damp-haired Nuala beside him.

“I hope you’ve got a brush,” Lorna said. “And I could do with a coat.”

He gave her a look that was slightly bemused, vanishing out the door, and Lorna gave Nuala a wink, pleased to see some of the tension leave the woman’s face.

Von Ratched returned with a heavy, red terrycloth robe, doubtless from some employee. It was too big, but not comically so, and it smelled of freesia shampoo. Somehow, that was royally creepy.

He also had a wide-toothed comb, but he didn’t hand it to her. “Sit,” he said, “and turn around.”

Lorna froze, suddenly very wary. She did not want this son of a bitch at her back. “You know, I’m totally bloody capable’v doing that myself.”

“I know,” he said, still watching her expectantly.

She considered fighting it, but she still knew she had to pick her battles with this bastard – especially with Nuala here. Poor woman didn’t need to be any more freaked out than she already was.

“Fine,” Lorna said, glowering. She sat, throwing the wet tangle of her hair over the chair back. She knew damn well why he was doing this, and she wasn’t going to rise to it.

Still, it was hard not to when he started teasing the comb through the ends. At least he seemed to know what he was doing, but ugh. Thranduil so often brushed her hair that having Von Ratched do it was way more horrifying than it ought to be.

Lorna grit her teeth, trying to focus on something, anything else, even while little shivers of revulsion worked down her spine. The twins – the twins were safe, and even as angry as Thranduil was, he would take care of them. She need not worry on _that_ score, and Siobhan was safe out of it. One person to be responsible for was better that two. If it came down to it, Lorna could carry Nuala, but she wouldn’t have been able to handle both of them.

Focus, focus…a slow smile spread across her face.

“ _Bhí uair amháin sa bean darb ainm Jill_  
_A shlogtar d' pléascadh pill_  
_Fuair siad léi fhaighin_  
_I North Carolina_  
_agus a cíoch_  
_I gcrann sa Bhrasaíl._ ”

Nuala burst into choking, slightly hysterical laughter, and Lorna winked at her again. She had dozens of the damn things, and the fact that Von Ratched would have no idea what she was saying unless she chose to translate it just made it so much better.

“And what does that mean?” he asked, sounding far too patient.

“It’s a limerick,” Lorna said. “‘There once was a woman named Jill, who swallowed an exploding pill. They found her vagina in North Carolina, and her tits in a tree in Brazil.”

Nuala only laughed harder, though she almost looked like she was afraid to do so. Von Ratched made no move to stop her – he just kept on combing, and Lorna knew it was going to take more than that to get to him. 

“ _Bhí uair amháin sa fear as Madrass_  
_Cé leis liathróidí rinneadh as práis_  
_Nuair bhfuigheadh sé bang 'em le chéile_  
_Ba mhaith siad spraoi aimsir stoirmiúil_  
_Agus bheadh lightning shoot as a thóin._ ”

She cracked herself up with that one, now caring little that Von Ratched was still being a creeper with her hair. “Come on, Nuala, with me now:

“ _There one was a man from Madrass_  
_Whose balls were made out’v brass_  
_When he’d bang ’em together_  
_They’d play ‘Stormy Weather’_  
_And lightning would shoot out’v his ass_.”

Join in Nuala did, though she was giggling rather too hard to be anything like intelligible. Lorna smiled again. If Von Ratched thought he was going to cow them so easily, he was destined to be mistaken.

\--

In the DMA, things were, by and large, ticking away steadily. There was still monstrous overcrowding, and few people got much sleep, but it worked. Miranda was pleased.

So, of course, Lord Thranduil had to come and ruin it all.

He came directly to her office, where she was sorting through far too much paperwork. Miranda didn’t trust computers; she kept _everything_ backed up on hard copy, which meant that her right hand was now cramped and stained with ink. She wasn’t at all pleased to see him, but one look at him made her pause.

She’d known at first glance that he was a predator – hell, he was probably the most dangerous person she was ever likely to meet. He had, however, been a predator at rest, but no longer – now the tension in his body told her he was very much on the hunt. And, looking at his icy eyes, she felt sorry for whoever or whatever he was hunting. Never yet had she seen him look so wholly, completely _inhuman._

“I take it you want something?” she asked warily.

“Von Ratched has my wife,” he said flatly. “I need one of your finders. Bridie is too elderly to travel far.”

Oh, _shit_. “The finders can’t,” Miranda said. “We’ve tried. Hell, we’ve tried for the last sixty years. I can run a global search for any suspicious activity, but there’s a reason we haven’t taken him out years ago. The only person who can find him is Sharley, but I have no way to contact her.”

“Were she able to stop this, I believe she already would have. I need whatever aid you can give me.” He stood so very, very still, almost wholly like a statue save for his eyes. If _anyone_ could kill Von Ratched, it was probably Lord Thranduil.

She drummed her fingers on her desk. “We’ve got satellite access we’re not supposed to have,” she said, “and we can get a picture of him off our security cameras. It’ll take time, since he could be anywhere, but we could sneak a facial-recognition search through airports all over the world. Knowing what fucking continent he’s on would be a start. He can fool the people around him, but he can’t fool technology.”

“How long will that take?” he asked, and she really, _really_ didn’t like the look in his eyes. It was beyond cold.

“I don’t know,” she said. “There’s a lotta airports to hit – what day did this happen?”

“Yesterday. I tracked him to the airport, but I cannot read your language in anything but Lorna’s abysmal handwriting.” He sounded so irate that, if he’d been anyone else, Miranda would have been tempted to laugh. As it was, she was a bit afraid he’d strike her if she did. This was a man – Elf – who desperately needed to hit _something_.

“There are only so many international airports in the world,” she said, firing up her computer. “Sharley said he’d been based in America before he came to Ireland, so it’s reasonable that he’d at least stop over. Problem is, America’s big. We’re not going to pin him down right away.” Her keyboard clacked as she typed up a request to the electropaths. “Hell, maybe we’ll get lucky and Lorna’ll kill the fucker before we find him. I might be able to fit her in my pocket, but _I_ wouldn’t want to piss her off. The small ones are always the ones that bite.”

She glanced up in time to see a little of the coldness leave Lord Thranduil’s eyes. “She told me she bit someone’s nose off, when she was younger.”

Miranda snorted. “People like you and me, someone looks at us and knows they should be afraid. I almost think the little bantam-weight bastards like Lorna are more dangerous, because anyone who set them off wouldn’t see it coming.” She was trying to be comforting, in the only way she knew how.

“I intend to make certain it does not come to that, Mistress Miranda. Find her, and I will reward you well.”

\--

Lorna had run through most of the limericks she knew by the time Von Ratched was done with her hair. 

She and Nuala followed him into a featureless white exam room, with a padded chair upholstered in grey plastic rather than a table. Beside it was a steel tray, on which was laid a line of unpleasant tools she couldn’t identify. Most of them were sharp.

Nope. _Nope._ No way in hell could she sit by while the fucker did…whatever…to Nuala. 

“Oi,” she said, tapping Von Ratched on the shoulder. When he turned, she slugged him as hard as she could, her wrist popping from the odd angle. There was probably no way she’d win this fight, but she’d damn well try.

The surprise of it made him stagger, and if running had been an option, Lorna would have grabbed Nuala and legged it. As it was, there was nowhere to go, and Nuala shrieked and dove out of the way.

Well. This was going to suck.

Von Ratched grabbed her arm, wrenching her toward him. He tried to pick her up, but she’d expected that – most tall people she’d fought tended to assume lifting her off her feet would somehow disable her.

A kick would be entirely ineffective, so she curled into a ball in the two seconds it took him to lift her, planting her stocking feet square against his chest. _Then_ she kicked, and kicked hard, trying to use all the strength in her legs to break his hold.

Her heart lurched when it didn’t do a damn bit of good. Oh, his grip faltered, but the son of a bitch had to be nearly as strong as Thranduil, but _how_? Von Ratched was creepy as fuck, but he was still human.

Panic tried to curl in her gut, but she was so angry it didn’t get far. She couldn’t break his grasp, she couldn’t kick away –

A truly awful chill cascaded through her veins – not fear, but rage of a sort quite alien to her. It was not unlike what she’d felt in the woods, when the government attacked, but this was far stronger. She went very still, watching Von Ratched watch her, curiosity overtaking the anger in his eyes.

“Póg mo thóin, cocksucker,” she said – and, in a movement surprisingly fluid for her, dropped her legs, surged forward, and sank her teeth into his neck like a maddened zombie.

\--

It was rare that something truly startled Von Ratched, but Lorna certainly managed it.

Her little performance in the caverns had led him to peg her as hot-tempered, but the look in her odd eyes, in the split second before she struck, had been icy and almost reptilian.

He tried to hurl her away, but she’d wrapped her legs around his torso like a vice, literally chewing into the base of his neck. It took his telekinesis to shift her – to fling her halfway across the room, crashing over the chair and onto the floor.

She rose, spitting blood on the tile. Her teeth were smeared with it, and he felt its wet heat run down his neck, wicking through the fabric of his shirt. The pain he ignored for now, too _fascinated_ to pay it any mind yet.

“Here’s the thing,” she said, her words strangely level for one so infuriated, “I might not be able to stop you hurting us, but you can damn well bet _I’ll hurt you back_.” That strange, alien gleam had returned to her eyes – she seemed almost fey, and he wondered, for the first time, if she was truly human after all.

He ought to crush this little rebellious streak – ought to drug her into oblivion until he had need of her. It was the only intelligent thing to do, and yet he did not _want_ to. She’d wounded him, yes, but not terribly, and he was wonderfully curious about what else she might be able to do. That ice in her eyes, so cold it burned – never had he seen anything like it, and it intrigued him immensely.

He caught her with his telekinesis, moving around the chair to stand before her. She really was _tiny_ ; the crown of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder. Immobile though she was, she still glowered up at him with the full, laser-sharp stare of her vivid eyes.

Von Ratched brushed her hair back from her forehead. “You, Lorna Donovan, are going to be more entertaining than I thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeeeah, Lorna, that was a mistake, and not for the reasons you might expect. Hurry it up, Thranduil.
> 
> Title means “Resistance” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with warm fuzzies. Let me know what you think of all these developments.


	43. Achrann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Von Ratched continues to be creepy, Lorna and Thranduil telepathically tag-team him (with unfortunate results), and he realizes he really can’t win. Sadly, that means everyone has to pay for it. (Including him.)

Thranduil could not sit still.

Celebrían was doing her best to craft a working Mirror, with Elrond to aid her, but all Thranduil could do was pace, concocting ever more creative torments for Von Ratched. That he often carried one of the twins while he did so made his thoughts no less bloodthirsty.

Both children fretted and cried, no doubt missing their mother. Most of the villagers wouldn’t go anywhere near him when he was in this mood, but Bridie had no such qualms. She rapped on the door to his study and let herself in, shaking her head.

“Quit stewing,” she said, lifting the fussing Saoirse out of her bassinet. “You’re scaring everyone. Lorna’ll need you, but she’ll not need you like _this_.”

Anyone else, Thranduil would have driven away in an instant, but the glint in her blue eyes reminded him far too much of his mother.

“Lorna never knew her grandda, but she’s much like him,” Bridie went on. “She thinks her temper came from that no-good da’v hers, but she’s wrong. Her da was a coward who picked on those that couldn’t fight back.” 

She stroked Saoirse’s head, rocking the girl. “I don’t know how much attention you paid to Ireland in the last century, but we had a little, bloody thing called the Easter Rising, some five years before I was born. The twenty years that followed were no picnic – we were our own country, finally, but the English, they still found ways to cause trouble. Not officially, no, but they’d shat on us for a thousand years, and there were some that thought it a grand idea to keep our lives hell. They wanted to destabilize us, demoralize us, and a few just straight-up murdered us.”

Saoirse gurgled a little, watching her with round green eyes, and Bridie shifted her.

“I was fourteen when he came to Lasgaelen – a man from bloody England. He had a wicked thing still new to the world with him – the Americans called it a Tommy gun. Nowadays it’s just a machine gun, if you know what that is.”

Thranduil did, in fact, thanks to his cinematic education.

“How in God’s bloody name he’d even _found_ Lasgaelen, I didn’t know, but find it he did,” she went on. “Him and that bloody gun. Michael, he wasn’t but sixteen when he turned up at the pub, waving his weapon about. We’d been conditioned all our lives to fear Englishmen with guns, they’d been a threat so long – everybody froze.

“Michael’s mam served at the pub then, on Saturdays. She was as gorgeous a woman as you could ever hope to see – curly hair black as coal, and eyes like a morning sky. You can imagine where this bastard’s mind went, but no sooner had he made his demand than Michael, who’d always been the gentlest boy I’d ever known, had a knife in that _creature’s_ gut. Sliced him open like a bloody salmon, and that was the end’v that.

“We buried the bastard outside the village, along with that bloody gun. He’s still there, or whatever’s left’v him after all this time.”

“Anyway, my _point_ is that Michael did what had to be done, but he was never the same afterward. Bastard might’ve deserved it, but I don’t know that Michael ever really forgave himself. We married when I was eighteen, and I woke to his nightmares until the day he died,” she said, shaking her head. “Lorna, she’s like him – she’ll gut that man, if she gets a chance, but she’ll not be able to live with herself afterward. If she gets to him before you do, it’s you who’ll be stuck with the fallout. And you’ll be no use to her at all in this state.”

“I will find her, before she must,” he said, but he knew there was a chance Bridie was right. Lorna might well kill him first, and Thranduil knew her well enough to know it would haunt her. Her father had been different: she had not killed him of malice aforethought, nor would she have, no matter how much she wished him dead.

However, Thranduil knew something about her that Bridie could not, gleaned mostly indirectly: Lorna was not a killer, but when she was angry enough, she liked hurting people. She might not have deliberately killed anyone, but when she was seventeen she’d nearly beaten a man to death with a length of pipe for trying to assault one of her friends. Her temper was an ugly, cruel, vicious thing; given opportunity, he would not put it past her to torture Von Ratched rather than kill him. And there was no way that would end well for her.

“Well, if you _don’t_ , heed my words. Lorna knows she’s got a bit’v the devil in her, but I don’t think she knows how much.” Bridie gave him a critical once-over. “And have a bloody drink. If anyone on this Earth needs one right now, it’s you. I’ve no doubt you’re concocting torments’v your own for that bastard, but you’ll do it better with some booze in your blood.”

Incredibly, Thranduil almost – _almost_ – smiled. He couldn’t help but respect the sheer audacity of her, though he also wasn’t surprised. She had, after all, thrown pans at him and demanded he get off her lawn.

“It seems unfair,” he said, looking down at Shane, who was finally asleep. “Lorna likely has no comforts. Why should I?”

“Because she wouldn’t want you tormenting yourself on her account. She’d be right pissed off at you, in fact,” Bridie said sternly. “Have a drink or five, and plot your revenge. Either your people or mine’ll get a trace on her soon enough.”

She sounded so very confident. “I know,” he said, “but why are you so certain?”

She snorted, laying the sleeping Saoirse in her bassinet. “I’m old, Lord Thranduil,” she said. “Old like a human is. You’re bloody ancient, but you’ll never have my perspective, because you’ll never actually get _old_. Just how much attention d’you pay to the passing’v an hour, or a day? Us humans, our days’re numbered from the start. If you haven’t got wisdom by the time you’re my age, you’ll never have it. Now, I mean it – _drink_. I’ll look after these two a bit.”

\--

Von Ratched wound up not doing anything to Nuala. This worried Lorna, for she was certain it was only because he was thinking up something worse.

Well. She could easily do the same.

He’d sent the pair of them back to their rooms, and she lay now on her bunk, wrapped up in the blankets as well as her borrowed robe, staring at the ceiling.

Directing her telepathy at anyone but Thranduil seemed useless, so she didn’t try. She let her mind wander, which had actually been easier when she was drugged.

Six people, including Von Ratched…she caught a snatch of something, an irate nurse who had been expecting more ‘patients’. She was bored, and she wanted her bathrobe back. Something about her mind made Lorna shudder – elusive, nameless, and almost nauseating.

 _Grieggs_ , that was her name, _Janice Grieggs_. Von Ratched wasn’t new to her; she’d worked with him before, at his last facility, which meant she was probably a damn sociopath.

Unfortunately, Lorna had no idea how to actively search her mind. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for something useful to bob to the surface: their location.

“Alaska,” she whispered, and grinned. She had a hazy idea that Alaska was bloody big, but at least Thranduil would know where to look.

Her elation didn’t last long. Her door was wrenched open, and a woman glowered at her. This was probably Nurse Grieggs, Lorna thought. Her age was hard to guess, for her skin had the tight, artificial look of Botox injections she probably didn’t actually need. Her hair was a dark blonde, ridiculously immaculate – why bother, out here in the middle of nowhere? It wasn’t like anybody cared.

“Doctor wants to see you,” she said, and there went all Lorna’s gladness for her new bit of information.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, shrugging off the blankets and hauling herself to her feet. She didn’t know why she was so afraid of him – yeah, he could hurt her, but it wasn’t like she hadn’t dealt with pain before. Yes, he was a goddamn giant, and yes, his eyes were the creepiest thing she’d ever seen, but that wasn’t enough to account for her fear. She was simply afraid, and _God_ did that piss her off.

Nurse Botox – and Lorna would never be able to think of her as anything else, because seriously, her face looked downright plastic – led her to what turned out to be an extremely posh office. No tile in here: the floor was covered in deep, heavy, cream-colored carpet, the walls a much softer white than the corridors. They were practically obscured by framed degrees, awards, and photos, most of which were black and white shots of cities she couldn’t recognize. 

Von Arsehole sat behind a huge, highly polished desk of dark mahogany, hands folded atop it. His somewhat smug expression made her want to pick up the plush chair that faced the desk and brain him with it. Her eyes traveled to the square gauze bandage on his neck, focusing on the fact that hell, at least she’d hurt him. It could be done.

“And here was me thinking we were done for the day,” she said, when Botox abandoned her.

“I know you have been reading the minds of my staff,” he said, gesturing to the chair. It was so tall she had to jump a little to sit in it, the leather upholstery squeaking.

“‘Reading’ would imply I’ve got anything like control over it,” she said, knowing there was no point in denial. “Not my fault my mind wanders. It’s not like you’ve given me a book or anything.”

She realized, all too late, that she’d walked right into a trap. “Then I will give you something to do,” he said. “How is your spelling?”

“Utter crap,” she said honestly, “and my handwriting’s worse. Tell me, Doctor, d’you have a contingency plan for when my husband shows up?” Might as well throw a total non-sequitur at him.

His answering smirk was worryingly serene. “I have a contingency plan for everything, Lorna,” he said. “I’m impressed you managed to make contact with him.”

Shite a liar though she was, she had to try, though her palms were already sweating. “Why the hell would you think I was strong enough to do that? I barely found him when I was in the caverns and he was in the DMA.”

Von Ratched’s faint air of smug amusement vanished, his eyes growing so cold she shuddered before she could help it. “Do not waste my time trying to lie to me,” he said.”I know that you did. What have you told him?”

“That me and Nuala’re alive, and you’re a right creepy bastard.” _That_ was the complete truth. She was abruptly glad she hadn’t had a chance to tell Thranduil where she was. “Is there a point to all’v this?”

He arched an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “I cannot read your mind,” he said, the barest trace of irritation in his tone, “therefore I must observe.”

“There’s not much to observe,” Lorna said dryly. “I’m a telepath. So what? _You’re_ a telepath. You already know how it works. It’s not like I can do anything you can’t. I wouldn’t know how to let you into my head even if I wanted to, which, yeah, _no_. Again, you’re bloody creepy.”

Honestly, she really didn’t get it. Thranduil could be horrendously intimidating – her sure as hell had been the day they met, when she hadn’t been at all sure he wouldn’t straight-up murder her for trespassing. He was literally inhuman, while Von Ratched only _seemed_ that way, yet somehow the bastard scared her far worse than Thranduil had ever done. Perhaps because Thranduil was so obviously inhuman, whereas Von Ratched shouldn’t be, but _was_. Physiologically, he was no different from any other man, but there was something alien within him, something hard-edged and _evil_.

She wondered if he was even aware of it.

“What _are_ you?” she asked, before he could speak. “You’re so bored, so frustrated – why d’you want to live forever, when there’s nothing in this world to make it worth it?” She was vaguely conscious of leaning forward in her chair, hands gripping the arms, the leather cool and soft beneath her fingers. “You don’t know what we are, _why_ we are, and I don’t think you really believe you’ll ever figure it out.”

Von Ratched paled, but a sharp, unholy curiosity entered his ungodly eyes. “You are not in m mind,” he said, his voice even but tone utterly fascinated. “I would feel it, if you were. What are you doing?”

What _was_ she doing? Lorna didn’t know what, or how, but she couldn’t stop. This wasn’t telepathy, this was – she didn’t have words for what this was, and doubted anyone did.

“There’s something in you, Doctor,” she said. “Something broken, something _wrong_. Why did you kill your mother?” She didn’t know how she knew that, but know it she did. Was this somehow Thranduil’s doing? But how would _he_ know? He’d had to snoop to find out anything about her.

 _Darkness calls to darkness_. She didn’t know whose thought that was – only that it wasn’t hers. She’d killed her father, even if not on purpose, and she was glad of it. Thought that she might be at all akin to this bastard nearly made her ill.

Von Ratched might be technically human, but he was out of his chair and around his desk almost before she could blink. Another blink and he’d hauled her upright, wrenching her right arm in the process, his grip so tight she knew he’d leave bruises. He was not, however, angry; when she looked up, she found him smiling.

“Let us explore this, Lorna,” he said, and darkness took her.

\--

Still Thranduil paced, but now he was tipsy. He refused to get drunk, but Bridie was right – wine helped. The twins slept, the fire burned low, and he paced.

 _Alaska_.

The word was a whisper in his mind, totally unfamiliar. He froze mid-step.

 _Lorna, are you there?_ he asked.

 _Alaska._ There was a strange, hazy warmth attached to the thought, as though she were drunk. If she was, it wasn’t enough, for he could feel her distress, and her anger. There was pressure, great pressure, against the barrier around her mind, and while it didn’t hurt – yet – it was growing increasingly uncomfortable.

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, rage spiking through him. Lorna had no idea how to go on the offensive with her gift – and even if she had, Thranduil suspected Von Ratched’s strength was something she would not be able to overcome.

 _He_ , however, could.

_Let me in, Lorna. Let me use your mind. Please._

_What?_ The thought was hazy, muzzily angry, and he wondered if she had the cognizance to understand what he asked.

 _You cannot attack him, Firieth Dithen, but_ I _can. You must grant me permission_. He could not – _would_ not – do this without her consent, no matter how perfect a chance it was.

 _I_ – pain spiked through her, and through him, and before he knew what he was doing, his mind surged into hers.

That man would hurt his wife no longer.

_Work with me, Lorna. You and I are going to attack._

\--

Lorna was far less combative when drugged, but she was also rather less entertaining.

Still, to be safe, Von Ratched strapped her wrists and ankles to the exam table. He’d been rather lucky she hadn’t managed to actually tear his throat out; he didn’t want to give her a second chance.

She seemed quite mellow now, her eyes glazed and unfocused. Probing the barrier around her mind was tedious, but at least she wasn’t fighting him. 

Force, he was sure, was pointless. A lighter approach, ephemeral as smoke, searched for anything resembling a crack. Thus far there was nothing, but he was a patient man. If there was anything to be found, he would find it.

He could not read her mind, but he felt the exact instant someone else did. There was a shift, intangible but palpable, even from the outside.

Lord Thranduil.

Here Von Ratched hesitated. Much as he wanted to speak with this Elf, he was not a fool – he didn’t know how much damage Thranduil could do, even by proxy. Irk him though it might to withdraw, withdraw he did – or tried to.

He could not get into Lorna’s mind. That did not, apparently, mean Lord Thranduil couldn’t get _out._

_The Elf hit his mind not like a hammer, but like a needle, precise and devastatingly powerful. It was all Von Ratched could do to slam the barriers down on the greater part of his plans and memories, and even then he didn’t trust it to last. Was this what his intrusion felt like to ordinary people?_

_Pain lanced through his head, sharp and piercing, as he did all he could to repel this invader. Never had he known anything so shockingly, horrifyingly intense. Images and sounds flooded his senses – six thousand years of battle and blood and death –_

–with your sword upon your shoulder– 

_That was Lorna, her voice unmistakable, the cadence of her words suggesting they were a song._

_They must have been working in tandem, for it was an army he saw now, marching beneath a full moon, their armor gleaming silver in the light._

–a thousand blades were flashing, in the rising of the moon– 

_Flash they did, wielded against a horde of hideous creatures –_ orcs _, his mind supplied, or Thranduil’s did for him. They broke upon the ranks of this Elven army like water upon a wall of stone, without form nor order, seemingly indifferent to the fact that the first wave fell to the pikemen._

_Among them was Thranduil, king of them all, a wickedly sharp sword in each hand. Buoyed by rage, by hate, but bloodlust, he fought with a viciousness his fellow lords and ladies did not. There was something fey, something almost dark in him – it was why he’d had no Elven ring, why he had been left to defend his kingdom with nothing but strength of numbers._

_But he had one now. He had a ring, and his rage burned hot as the heart of a star._

__I am coming for you, Doctor _, he said, his voice as cold and implacable as a glacier._

There will be no point in coming, if you kill your wife first. Get out, before you give her a coronary.

_He let Thranduil see what he saw – Lorna’s ashy pallor, her glazed, not-quite vacant eyes spotted red with subconjunctival hemorrhage. Blood spilled from her nose in a crimson river, and oh, there was panic in Thranduil’s mind now. The mighty, powerful Elf had a weakness, and its name was Lorna Donovan._

_Sure enough, his mind withdrew, leaving Von Ratched, wonderfully alone in his own head._

He rose, fetching a paper towel to try to staunch Lorna’s bloody nose, and if he wasn’t quite steady on his feet – well, there were none around to see him. Perhaps he ought to give her a CAT scan, to see just how much damage her husband had done.

Von Ratched had no doubt now that Thranduil would locate him, likely sooner rather than later. Much as he hated the idea of running, he was not stupid enough to linger, especially not now that he had more concrete knowledge of just what Thranduil could really do.

There would be no studying Lorna, no picking her apart until he understood her gift. He was being denied the chance of a lifetime, and for that, they would pay. It was entirely possible Thranduil had already destroyed her himself, but if not….

Von Ratched had precious few standards. They were, he knew, what separated him from ordinary, base monsters. There was one that he knew he could never violate – he did not harm children. Lorna’s twins were safe from him, even if no one else she knew was.

Lorna herself…he knew exactly how to break her, distasteful though it would be. Yes, it would violate his other standard, but in this case, the ends justified the means.

“I hope your husband has not destroyed you, Lorna,” he said, running his fingers through her hair. “Had he not interfered, I would not do this, but you have both cost me, and for that you must pay. He will feel what you feel, and I believe it will shatter you both.” Part of him did genuinely wish there was some better way, but there was not, and distasteful or not, it would not deter him.

Thranduil, he knew, could kill him in half a heartbeat. The damned Elf outmatched him in every way, but love truly _was_ a weakness, and so easily exploited. There would be no Institute in Alaska, but if he could devastate them both, he could build one elsewhere without fear of discovery.

Nobody bested him. Nobody. Thranduil might be ridiculously strong, but there was no one on this Earth as cruel as Von Ratched. They were both going to find out the hard way why crossing him was not wise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice job breaking it, Thranduil. Seriously. Von Ratched is nothing if not a vengeful asshole, but at least Lorna is a scrappy little critter who will be, if pushed far enough, capable of outright murder. Next chapter is going to be…interesting. (Anyone who's read _Ettelëa_ knows what happens when Thranduil hops into Lorna's head uninvited. It ain't pretty.)
> 
> Title means “Confrontation” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with life, love, and fuzzy rainbows.


	44. Dúnmharú agus Bhfeice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Von Ratched in this chapter was _supposed_ to be much worse in one way. (It’s pretty bad in a few others.) The plot called for him to get sadistically rape-y, but he refused to cooperate. Dude might be unrepentantly evil, but he _does_ have standards, and he only rapes Lorna in the books because by then he’s pretty unhinged. He refused to even try it here, to my frustration, which left me with something of a quandary. Unfortunately, what he winds up doing is worse.
> 
> Needless to say, there is some dark and disturbing stuff in here, as well as a fair bit of violence, because our favorite Elvenking finally turns up, and he is neither happy nor mentally stable.

No sooner had Miranda heard the word ‘Alaska’ than she started hunting with satellites.

It would have helped if Lord Thranduil had actually gone _away_ when he told her to look in Alaska, but nope – he stood beside her in one of the DMA’s many control rooms, facing a wall taken over by a dozen different screens. With his eyesight, he stood a better chance of spotting anything unaided, but he was giving her a royal case of the creeps. And Miranda was not a woman easily creeped out.

She’d pegged him as a very great threat the moment she’d laid eyes on him, but there was something different, something almost unbalanced about him now. Something perilously close to madness lurked in the depths of those pale eyes, and dread stirred in her gut. If he lost his shit, they were in a _massive_ amount of trouble. Not unless Sharley got her ass out of hiding, and sure has hell hadn’t been any help so far.

“You need to look further west.”

Miranda jumped, and even Lord Thranduil twitched. “God _dammit_ , Sharley! Where the hell have you been?”

“Lurking,” Sharley said. “This took less time than I thought.” There was always a trace of sorrow about her, but now, as she looked at Lord Thranduil, it was far more blatant. “Thranduil, when it comes down to it, do your thing, but remember who you are. Lorna will need _you_. Don’t jump off that slippery slope.”

He took a step toward her, the madness in his eyes rising. In that moment he looked little more alive than Sharley. “And what happens if I do?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with malice. “You allowed this, Sharley Corwin. Show me why.”

Sharley looked at him speculatively. Miranda, no fool, got the hell out.

\--

Had Lord Thranduil been a human, there was no way Sharley would even be considering this. As it was, she still hesitated – yes, he was functionally immortal, and yes, he was six thousand years old, but there was no iron-clad guarantee this wouldn’t break his brain a little. He had a very powerful mind, but he did not see as she did, and there was a very real chance she’d overwhelm her if she wasn’t careful.

“Give me your hand, Thranduil Oropherion,” she said. “I will show you what I can – why I had to let this play out.”

Even in his strange, altered state, he hesitated to touch her, but after a moment he reached out. Thanks to that ring, his skin was warmer than it had been, and she had to consciously keep her grip from crushing. Always, when she touched the living, there was the temptation to leech all their warmth away, to steal it for whatever fleeting time it would last.

 _Von Ratched would have started this, but it was still going to happen, with or without him. If it didn’t turn out to be Thranduil’s fault, it would be hers, no matter what either of them tried to do about it. In some very rare cases, all potentialities led to the same place. This was not a potentiality, this was an_ eventuality – _one she had no idea how to change._

_Thorvald, his name was – the man who would destroy half the world, locked away these last thousand years. Thorvald, who had touched off the Obliteration, who had wiped out most of the Gifted and many of Thranduil’s people._

_Thorvald, who Thranduil had helped contain._

_It would have been Von Ratched, in his thirst for vengeance against the DMA. The door to Thorvald’s prison, his empty alternate plane, had been slowly failing for centuries, and a large enough burst of magic would allow him to break it entirely. That burst would happen, one way or another – and Lorna, whose ancestry was tied up with Thorvald’s, would be left to deal with it._

_And for that, she needed the full strength of her Gift. Strength that would only be unlocked through trauma. Trauma she would not receive if not for the Institute._

_Sharley guided him as gently as she could along the Time-lines – through another storm, so much larger than the one in Ireland, devastating much of North America, wind and lightning and clouds dark as night. She took him through the darkness that would escape with Thorvald, the mass exodus it would create to the southern hemisphere once what it did was discovered._

_And she showed him Lorna – what she would endure, and what she must do._

“If you kill Von Ratched, you’ll have to take his place in what’s to come,” she said, releasing his hand. “You don’t yet know what that means, but you will. And I am sorry for it.”

“But you will not stop me, when I kill him?” Thranduil asked, and she was deeply disturbed by the edge of cruelty in his tone, the ice in his eyes. Thranduil was not supposed to be cruel.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I won’t take away what is your right – but think, before you do it. There will be consequences beyond what you can comprehend – beyond what I can show you now. Kill him and you buy his future for your own,” she warned.

His response didn’t surprise her in the least. “That is a price I am willing to pay,” he said, without so much as a pause.

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” she sighed. He’d count the cost and find it worth it, but had no idea how high a price he’d pay. How high a price _Lorna_ would pay, in the end, through blood and tears and a rage that made even Sharley pause.

“I’ll help you,” she said, “when I can. But Thranduil, watch yourself. I know all the things you might have done, if you’d been given this ring long ago, and all the things you might do.” She paused. “I can show you, if you’d like. I could show you what you might have become, but not yet. Not until I see how you deal with Von Ratched.”

He tilted his head slightly, the look he gave her almost fey. “And what will that tell you?” he asked, curiosity and a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

“Everything I need to know. You could be much worse than Von Ratched, Thranduil, and all with the best of intentions.”

“And what will you do, if I am?” His expression, or lack of one, managed to chill even her.

Sharley looked him dead in the eye, into the quasi-madness of his icy gaze. “I’ll kill you.”

\--

Thranduil, even in the grip of this strange madness, was disturbed – but he was also relieved. He knew something was wrong with him now, even if he could put no name to it, and he didn’t need Sharley to show him what he might have done, or what he might yet do. What of his mind remained _him_ was grateful to have someone who could stop him.

She was not, apparently, willing to take him to Alaska himself, for she was gone before he could speak.

He looked at the ring on his hand. A strange haze had settled over his mind, yet somehow his senses had sharpened, impossible though that should be. He did not dare seek Lorna’s mind, no matter how much he wanted to – not after what his presence had unwittingly done. If he had hurt her in his desire to attack Von Ratched, he would never forgive himself. It was easy to forget that Lorna was as comparatively frail as any other Edain, but he should not have. Not after what she had done to herself, when his forest was attacked.

He would find her, and he would heal her, and never again would he let her out of his sight.

\--

Lorna remained inert through both a CAT scan and an EEG, and Von Ratched was absolutely fascinated by what he saw.

Her brain was lit up like a Christmas tree, activity present in places to a level that shouldn’t be _possible_. There did not appear to be any damage, either, though he could not be certain until she woke.

He’d washed the blood from her face, and combed her hair, and now he stared down at her, torn for the first time in his life.

Could he break her? Did he even _want_ to? The answer, to his frustration, was no.

He had but two standards, and the thought of breaking either was unspeakably distasteful to him. He wore the title of monster freely, but a base sadist he was not. Yes, he had tortured, maimed, and killed in the name of science, but this – he could not do this. She and that husband of hers had to pay, but he had to find some other means.

Killing her would most definitely destroy Thranduil, but Von Ratched didn’t want to do that, either. Not when she had such potential.

Could he flee, and bring her with him? He would have to break her link to her husband once and for all, if it could be done. He did not want to break her, or kill her – he wanted to keep her, and in time make her his creature. _That_ would surely destroy Thranduil, completely and utterly.

“You are so fortunate I have standards,” he said, tracing the line of Lorna’s cheekbone. “Were I otherwise, you would long for death before I was through with you.”

She didn’t stir, nor did he expect her to for some time yet. Outside the window, the western sky was leaden, wind scudding through the snow. Nobody was going anywhere.

\--

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Miranda said, in a tone even Thranduil would have a hard time arguing with it. She pointed at some colored blobs on the screens, utterly meaningless to him. “See that? That’s one mother of a snowstorm. We have a Door outside Anchorage, but you won’t find anyone willing to fly anywhere in that mess, and we’re still not sure where the fucker even _is_. And before you go haring off on your own, I’m pretty sure even Elves can freeze to death.”

While she was right, it was unlikely. Possible, yes; likely, no.

“Look, we’ll find him,” she said, rather awkward sympathy in her tone. “I don’t suppose you can do anything about the weather with that ring?”

He shook his head, angrier than he should have been. “Not enough. Lady Galadriel might have been able to, but I do not know how. What of your weather-manipulators?”

“Against a storm that size? They’d be spitting in the wind. They can manipulate the weather, but they can’t outright control it – hence the name. I’ve never been to Alaska, but it’s not a place you want to fuck around in. And I say that having grown up in Australia, where every damn thing can kill you.”

Thranduil had been many a place an Edain would find overly hostile, but even through this strange fog, he realized she would not be telling him this lightly. She too wished Von Ratched dead; she would not stall without great reason. Lorna would not wish anyone to risk their life unnecessarily.

“I will leave the moment it is possible,” he said, and left her to it.

\--

 

When Lorna woke, she devoutly wished she hadn’t.

Nothing actually hurt – she was cruising a very steep wave of painkillers – but _something_ had gone wrong. Memory was slow to return, and when it did, she groaned, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. Awesome though it was to hurt Von Ratched, she was still going to murder Thranduil, because she already knew she wasn’t getting over _this_ in a hurry.

“I am releasing Nuala.”

Lorna squawked, flailing, and nearly fell off the bed. It was a proper hospital bed, not a cot, and when she opened her eyes again, she saw she was in an actual hospital room. The needles in her arms connected to two plastic bags filled with clear fluid. That explained the painkiller, at least.

“What?” she asked, her bleary, blurred vision settling on Von Ratched. He sat in a chair against the wall, watching her steadily.

“I am releasing Nuala. You and I will undertake a journey soon, and I cannot bring her with us. She will go home.”

Lorna was too tired and too high to panic as much as she ought to. “You just don’t give up, do you?” she asked, slurring a little. “You’ll never outrun Thranduil. Oh, you can cut us off from each other, but it’ll never stick.”

“It does not need to.” He rose, adjusting one of the plastic bags. “You have left me with something of a quandary, Lorna,” he said. “You and he must be punished, but I would prefer not to violate what few standards I have to do so.”

Even through her drugged haze, all sorts of alarms went off in her mind. “The fuck does that mean?” she demanded, though she could guess all too well.

“It means that I do not hurt people without some scientific purpose,” he said, his tone distinctly irritated. “Torturing you would be the sensible thing to do, but it is out of the question.”

Lorna’s mind was too sluggish to sort that out right away, but she dared to feel a little – a very little – relieved. While he could well be lying out his arse, weirdly, she believed him. She was pretty sure this wasn’t going to end well for her no matter what, but if she didn’t need to worry about getting her ears cut off…well, at this point, she’d take what she could get.

“Then can I go back to sleep?” she asked. Much as she wanted to kick him, in the state she was in, she’d probably fall over if she tried. That could wait until her head didn’t feel like it was full of bees.

“Rest, Lorna,” he said, and his tone was very odd – almost regretful. “This will all be over soon.”

\--

The Alaskan storm was moving inward at an alarming pace, but not fast enough to keep the satellites from discovering something…interesting.

The American NSA had some of the best satellites available, and the DMA cheerfully hacked them as needed. What this one picked up was just weird enough to warrant a second look.

She zoomed in, and in, and in some more, not daring to let herself hope just yet.

There was _something_ out in the ass-end of nowhere, some half-completed facility planted in the midst of an empty, snowy plane. Further zooming didn’t tell her much, but whatever the hell it was, somebody didn’t want anyone to find it. Even if it wasn’t Von Ratched, it was worth a look.

Not, however, in this snowstorm. She wasn’t going to risk her people, no matter how pushy Lord Thranduil was. If he was in such a hurry, he could get Sharley to drag him out, if she was actually willing.

Meanwhile, Miranda noted the coordinates. It was entirely possible there were more prisoners than Lorna and Nuala, and she needed to get them _all_ out alive. Somehow, she doubted Lord Thranduil would think of that.

\--

Thranduil knew exactly what Miranda had found, and when she found it. While he had a hazy idea that lurking in her mind was wrong, he could not remember why.

He fetched his sword, unused now for centuries, and his heaviest cloak. If Miranda was unwilling to risk her people, he could not fault her for it; they were, after all, Edain. While here was a possibility he would freeze, for them it would be a certainty. Even now, he would not ask anyone to commit suicide.

His three heaviest cloaks went with him, bundled together, just in case. There would be no bringing Lorna and Nuala home immediately – not until the storm had cleared, but both would need to be warmly wrapped when they _could_ leave. For now, distasteful as the idea was, they were likely going toned to linger a few days after killing Von Ratched. If Sharley would not involve herself in getting Thranduil there, she would doubtless also refuse to bring him home.

He stalked through the DMA like a wraith, collaring a young man in a white doctor’s coat.

“I need the Door to Anchorage,” he said. “Now.”

\--

Eventually, Lorna woke again, her head much less fuzzy.

Thankfully, she was alone this time, so she unhooked her drips and made a beeline for the bathroom. Her first two steps were a drunken stagger, the linoleum chilly even through her socks, but she managed to make it to the toilet without landing on her face.

Did she dare try to contact Thranduil? She wasn’t sure just what had happened to her head, but _something_ had happened, or she wouldn’t have blacked out. Was it safe to try again so soon?

Bladder empty, she zombie’d her way back to her bed, replacing the drips and curling into a ball. She didn’t trust Von Ratched to take the trouble of sending Nuala home – he’d probably kick her out into the snow and let her freeze to death. They had to get the hell out, but how? Lorna had a feeling Von Ratched would call her bluff on any hostage she might take. He didn’t seem the sort who would value his employees much.

She shut her eyes. She was still so damn _tired_ , and even now her head didn’t feel right. What use was she going to be to anyone right now? Even walking further than the bathroom would probably just land her on her arse.

The door opened, and she cracked open an eye to find Von Ratched watching her. Again. Goddammit.

“How long’ve I been asleep?” she asked, figuring she ought to say something.

“Twelve hours,” he said, shutting the door. “We are in the heart of the storm now. There will be no sense in running.”

“As if I could,” she grumbled, but unease curled in her gut. “Why are you here?”

He pulled the chair up beside her bed, pale eyes catching and refracting the low light of the bedside lamp. “I have been thinking,” he said. “I do not harm without some manner of scientific intent, and in any event I believe pain would be of little consequence to you. That leaves me with precious few options.”

“Options for _what_?” she asked, somehow keeping her voice steady.

“Punishing you and your damnable husband,” he said, brushing an errant strand of hair from her face.

What Lorna did next was unwise, but it was also pure instinct – she turned her head and sank her teeth into his hand, too horrified by even that brief touch to even think about what she was doing.

Had she been fully awake and aware, he never would have managed to wrench his hand free, but wrench it he did, and pinned her in place with his telekinesis.

“Do you ever _stop_ fighting?” he asked, quite calmly, despite the fact that his hand was dripping red.

“Keep pushing and you’ll find out,” she growled, seeking blindly with her own telekinesis, but her head was still too fuzzy to allow her much control. She couldn’t even break _his_ hold.

“I am sorry you have driven me to this, Lorna,” he said, laying his hand on her forehead. The wet heat of his blood trickled into her hair. “Perhaps you may take some solace in the knowledge that I will not enjoy this.

“What the fuck –”

She didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. What hit her was not pain, but the sort of thing only Thranduil had ever made her feel, jagging and sparking along her nerves.

“What – you can’t get in my mind,” she gasped, panic surging through her.

“I do not need to,” Von Ratched said, far too calmly. “This is basic biological manipulation. No telepath involved.”

Another wave of almost agonizing _need_ passed over her, and Lorna fought his hold with everything she had in her, but it wasn’t enough. Horror and revulsion gripped her in claws of ice, but the artificial desire only grew worse, the conflict between her mind and what was being forced upon her body almost more than she could bear.

It was the horror, the revulsion, that actually allowed her some measure of focus, so desperate was she to escape. Through sheer desperation she loosened his telekinetic grip enough to seize the lamp, swinging it in an uneven arc. 

Von Ratched caught her wrist before she could hit him with it, but the bulb exploded right in his face, shards of glass flying everywhere.

He drew his hand away, but the sensations didn’t stop. Still they warred within her, but her horror had shifted to a burning, blinding rage that was almost enough to overcome this forced desire.

Lorna sat up enough to snatch his collar, dragging herself upright and slamming her forehead into his nose. It snapped with a satisfying _crack_ , but still, _still_ he didn’t relent.

“You stop this, or I swear to Christ I will _rip out your fucking spine_!” she snarled, her left foot connecting with his ribcage. Lacking shoes, it wasn’t as effective as it might have been, but it still had to hurt.

Von Ratched took a few staggering steps back, wiping his nose on his sleeve, but still she felt – oh, she _felt_ , so intensely she almost couldn’t bear it –

It must have been instinct that led her to seize the pole containing the drips, the pain of the needles yanking from her arms a welcome distraction. The light from the hallway was weak, but her eyes had always been keen; she could see him clearly enough. Fury lent her telekinesis strength it might not otherwise have had in her state, though what had passed for precision was almost totally absent.

Von Ratched caught the pole, as she’d expected, but she used his momentary distraction to bring the ceiling down on them both, dodging with an utterly graceless roll. Her head swum, but even now she ached in a terrible, unwelcome way.

Damn him, he fended off the bulk of her shrapnel, but Lorna, inelegant though she was, was nothing if not fast. She hurled herself in a drunken vault over the bed, crashing into him and knocking them both into the hallway. With a positively feral growl, she punched him in the throat, wresting the pole from his grasp. She was beyond words now, beyond taunts or insults, mind and body at such dissonant war she could barely think.

Von Ratched was much taller than her, and still stronger, even with the aid of her telekinesis, but Lorna’s wrath burned like magma, like a star gone nova. Yes, he was strong, but she was incredibly fast, ducking his physical and telekinetic grasp, and with all the burning, near blinding force of her wrath, she jammed the pole into his shoulder, shoving all the force of her weight behind it.

The end of it should have been too blunt to pierce very fear, but she braced her feet against the wall, hurling herself and her weapon straight into Von Ratched.

“You think you can beat me?” she snarled. “You think I’ll just fucking roll over and give in?”

He wasted no time in words – instead he grabbed her wrist, breaking her grip, and threw her so hard she actually dented the wall. Pain exploded through her, but the sheer intensity of it overrode what remained of his influence.

Somehow, through God knew what effort, he yanked the pole right out of his shoulder, those ungodly eyes filled with frigid poison. He didn’t even seem to notice the blood that wicked through his shirt, that still dripped from his nose.

“I did not wish to hurt you, Lorna,” he said, still far too calmly. “Weaken you, yes, in mind and in soul, but for _this_ you have none to blame but yourself.”

Had Lorna’s not been swimming so badly from her collision with the wall, she might have dodged faster. As it was, the pole, when it drove through her chest, hit her sternum rather than her heart.

The shock of it was so great that it didn’t _hurt_ at all. She looked at it, and at him, her brain flatly refusing comprehension.

“This could have been quite different, Lorna,” Von Ratched said, his voice and his eyes frigid. He turned his head when _something_ shuddered through the air, something so strange and intense it managed to pierce her fog of disbelief.

Von Ratched paled, yet smiled, a kind of twisted, arrogant delight in his eyes. “I believe,” he said, “that is your husband. He may well kill me, but at least I have taken you from him. Even I did not expect my revenge to be so complete.”

\--

In truth, Von Ratched felt quite a bit of regret for what he had just done. It was such a waste, but she had left him with little recourse.

He pressed his hand to his shoulder, frowning. He did not think she had hit anything vial, or he would have bled out already. Even if she had…well. Quite soon, it wouldn’t matter.

Von Ratched was under no illusions as to his odds of surviving this. Thranduil was going to kill him, but he was not going to make it easy for the damned Elf – indeed, if he could, he would lead Thranduil to Lorna, if only to watch him break. That lone would make death worth it.

He was not without qualm, however, when he opened the main doors, and found the Elf standing in the whirling snow. Swathed in black, a sword in each hand, eyes like chips of ice, he looked like nothing so much as an avenging angel, a creature of Old Testament nightmare. Even Von Ratched, powerful as he was, _arrogant_ as he was, couldn’t help a deep frisson of fear.

 _Now I am become Death_ , he thought, _destroyer of worlds._

“Welcome,” he said, keeping any trace of mockery from his slight bow. “There is something I must show you, before we begin.”

His words evinced no curiosity, though Thranduil’s eyes flickered from Von Ratched’s nose, to the bloodstain spreading on his shirt. Let him look. He would understand why all too soon.

Or so Von Ratched thought. So distracted was he by this alien being that for once he was not aware of another approaching – not until something collided, hard, with his left temple.

It actually made him stagger, blood pouring as only a head wound did. He turned to find _Lorna_ , wild-eyed and unsteady, hands smeared with blood from the wound in her chest. They gripped the pole like a baseball bat, and she bared bloody teeth at him.

“Oh, did you think we were done?” she demanded.

“Quite frankly, yes,” he said flatly, wresting the pole from her grasp. “I suggest you attend to your wife, Lord Thranduil. She is too stubborn to admit she is dead.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she snapped, in the face of all evidence. “Kill that son’v a bitch, will you? I need a break.”

Von Ratched could have sighed with relief when the palpable weight of Thranduil’s glare left him. The ire drained from the Elf’s pale face, but strangely, it was not replaced by grief. Something quite gentle entered his eyes, and Von Ratched was so intrigued that he didn’t press whatever small advantage he might have had.

Gently – oh so gently – the Elf’s right hand rested on Lorna’s chest, the ring on his forefinger glittering like sunlight on water. He murmured something in an alien language, and no, _this_ could not be allowed to happen.

Von Ratched swung the pole around with all the speed and strength he could muster, but the damn Elf caught it without looking, using the thing to pivot and shove Von Ratched backward. Quick as a thought he removed the ring, placing it on Lorna’s left index finger. Something like peace overtook her expression, her eyes drifting shut.

Lord Thranduil rose, turning with slow, terrible deliberation. “You,” he said, soft and deep and deadly, “will pay for that.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Von Ratched said. “I would love to see what you may try.”

He drew the pole to him, blocking Thranduil’s first blow with one of those wicked swords, infusing it with his telekinesis so that it wouldn’t snap in half.

Naturally, Thranduil dodged when he swung the thing, but he also managed, _somehow_ , to dodge the ceiling tiles that rained down upon them. His swords were all but a blur, so sharp they sliced right through the buckling, cracking Sheetrock that flew into his path.

Von Ratched, utterly fascinated, seized the pale floor and dragged it upward, wondering just how much it would take to disorient Thranduil.

More than that, apparently. The Elf moved with a liquid grace even he could not match, and a speed no human could have equaled. Were it not for this damn shoulder wound, Von Ratched might have fared better, but probably not _much_ better.

He reached for the swords themselves – not to wrest them from Thranduil’s hands, for he doubted that would be possible – but the blades themselves. They moved so fast that he almost couldn’t do it, but he snagged the left, bending for all he was worth – and nothing happened.

 _Elf metal_ , he thought, even as the right blade managed to nick his chest. It was so sharp he barely felt it, but he certainly felt the blood it drew. His heart was pounding, veins singing with adrenaline – perhaps he was about to die, but just now he had never felt so alive.

\--

Had Thranduil been capable of rational thought, he would have been annoyed that this creature could evade him so well. As it was, he was not, and his advance was implacable, the impediments Von Ratched threw at him a mere nuisance.

The man had tried to kill Lorna.

The man had tried to kill Lorna.

_The man had tried to kill Lorna._

She would survive – Nenya would see to that – but Von Ratched had tried to kill her. He had stolen her and tormented her and left her for dead and now his own death would not be easy, nor would it be swift. Elrond and Galadriel had long thought Thranduil merciless, but they had no idea.

He surged forward, bringing his left blade down into Von Ratched’s foot, twisting hard. 

The man didn’t cry out, but he had no choice but to fall, and Thranduil’s right sword went through his wounded shoulder.

That he threw his telekinesis at Thranduil was no surprise – Thranduil had been expecting it, and willingly relinquished the left sword. He jammed the right into what remained of the wall, fighting the telekinesis and barely winning. Von Ratched couldn’t focus on it and his foot at the same time, however, and it was that which Thranduil used.

The man was fast for an Edain, very fast, but Thranduil was _not_ an Edain. Like a striking snake he lunged forward, snarling as he drove his sword straight through Von Ratched’s stomach.

Now, _finally_ , the bastard made a noise, thought was a grunt rather than a scream. “What next, _Lord Thranduil_?” he demanded, his words a gasp, his face a bloodless white. “Will you vivisect me? Gut me like a salmon?”

What tiny bit of rationality lingered in Thranduil’s mind told him to do just that, but the fog, the madness, whispered otherwise. Gutted, dead, he could not suffer. _Why not drive him mad?_ it said. _Destroy his mind and leave him like that?_

The thought was tempting, but the creature would never cease being a danger so long as he lived. He had to die – but that did not mean he could not be driven mad first. The man who prided himself on his power, on his intellect, would lose both ere death took him.

Thranduil smiled, slow and cruel. “Not yet,” he said, jerking the man toward him. He let the glamour fall from his face, watching the unholy fascination that overtook Von Ratched’s gaze. That would not last long. “First, you will endure my nightmares.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fear – I am not _actually_ going to kill Lorna. She won’t be a happy bunny for a while, but she’ll survive. Next chapter, I’m not going to go into nitty-gritty details about what Thranduil does to Von Ratched, because some things are too gory for this fic.
> 
> Title means “Murder and vengeance” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with fuzzies, though in this case you might want to beat me to death with my own keyboard.


	45. Ag teacht Abhaile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I’m sorry this took so long – I wrote it, re-wrote it, and stewed until I (hopefully) got it right. In which Thranduil, Lorna, and Nuala get home, Sharley makes a decision she might actually not regret, and nobody is okay. Nirva, my Russian translator, is crazy busy starting her own business, so this go-round hasn’t got actual Russian in Lorna and Sveta’s conversation.

Thranduil had so very many horrors he could inflict upon this man – this man who had doled out pain and cruelty, but never received it himself. He would know what it was to have half his face burned away, the unparalleled agony, the stench of his own burning hair and skin.

Then, perhaps, Thranduil might skin him for real, and slaughter everyone else in this accursed place who wasn’t Lorna or Nuala.

Much as he wanted to linger for hours, to draw out Von Ratched’s torture, he could not. He had to get Lorna home. Nenya was keeping her steady for now, but she needed aid, and he could not leave her long.

He looked at Von Ratched, at the defiance that still sparked in his eyes. Here was a man who would not relent until he was dead, a man who had done Eru knew what to Lorna. Torturing him, skinning him – it would be at Lorna’s expense, time she would spend alone that she ought to be safe at home.

And no amount of vengeance was worth that.

Disgusted – with Von Ratched and with himself – he wrenched the sword free of the man’s gut and sliced his throat in one clean sweep. The spray of blood was distasteful but not unexpected, hot and coppery.

Both swords were filthy, but he would clean them later. For now he sheathed them, picking his way back through the ruins, wondering if the roof was going to collapse. Most of the lights had been taken out, but there was enough left for him to see.

Lorna lay where he had left her, unconscious and serene, deep under Nenya’s spell. The ring would keep her from feeling any pain, but he had to do something about her wound, and they could not leave yet. He would get her somewhere warm and clean, and kill the rest of Von Ratched’s minions as they showed up.

She didn’t stir when he lifted her, which was good; he didn’t want her waking until he had done whatever he could for her wound. How it hadn’t killed her, he didn’t know; whatever had impaled her had gone right through her body, narrowly missing both heart and spine. Her breastbone was cracked around the hole – she would not be moving much even when he got her home. Nor would Thranduil budge from her side.

“She’ll be fine.”

He didn’t jump, but it was a near thing. Sharley was quite suddenly beside him, and she looked strangely…not sorrowful. “Did I pass your test?” he asked venomously, glaring down at her.

“Yes,” she said simply, her odd eyes holding his. In spite of his worry, his rage that had been denied proper release, her gaze disturbed him – he felt as though she were reading his very fëa, taking him apart, piece by piece. She should not have such power over the world, over him and his people, able to give and deny at will, and yet he could think of no way to stop her. “Caring for Lorna outweighed your need for revenge. And it’s why I’ll take you home.”

“And if I had not passed?” he asked, resentment curling within him.

 _There_ was the sorrow, flickering through her eyes, across the death-pallor of her scarred face. “Then only they would be going home. You’d have to make your own way.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why do you do these things?” he asked. “Why are you so arbitrary with your aid?”

“I’m not,” she said. “You’ll understand, in time. Meanwhile, let’s get Nuala, and get you home.”

\--

Lorna slept so deeply that if she dreamt, she didn’t remember it.

When she woke, her head was still slightly fuzzy, but in a less nauseating way. Whatever she as lying on was so comfortable she didn’t even want to open her eyes. Where was she? How had she got here?

Memory slammed into her, hard, and she couldn’t repress a moan of utter horror. The wound in her chest might not hurt, but nothing could rid her of the terrible, skin-crawling shame, the _loathing_ that suffused her entire being.

“You are safe, Lorna.” Thranduil’s voice, Thranduil’s smooth fingers on her face. “You are safe, and you will heal.”

Lorna wasn’t so sure of that. She didn’t know that she would ever be whole again. 

But Thranduil was here, and when she opened her eyes, she found they were in their room. He lay stretched out beside her, his loose, linen undershirt imbued by the comforting, welcome scent of him. Her pain was dulled by God knew what – not morphine or anything like it, for there wasn’t any associated floaty feeling.

Yes, she was safe, but the shame and fear and _rage_ still swirled within her addled mind. For however brief a time, she’d been all but helpless, and oh, how that _galled_ her. Even now, warm and comfortable, with her husband beside her, she wanted to claw her own skin off.

Thranduil, mercifully, did not ask her what had happened – what besides the obvious, at any rate. He merely ran his fingers through her hair, over and over, letting her be still and quiet. It was what she needed, yet it was a double-edged sword, because if she was quiet, she thought far too much.

“He’s dead,” she said at last, and it wasn’t a question.

“Very. I finished what you started.” Thranduil’s breath was warm against the crown of her head as he spoke, his fingers still carding gently through her hair.

 _I should have killed him_ , she thought. _I’m the one he wronged_. She could never tell Thranduil that, though, because she couldn’t tell him what Von Ratched had done to her. That was her secret, the shame of her failure to be taken to her grave.

“How’s Nuala?” she asked instead.

“Shaken, but unharmed. Molly is with her.” He snorted quietly. “Molly wants to go to Alaska, so that she can urinate on Von Ratched’s corpse.”

Laughter hurt, but Lorna couldn’t help it.”She should see if Sharley’ll take her. God knows Molly’d do it.”

“I have little doubt she would,” Thranduil said dryly. “You, however, are not allowed to move. Elrond’s orders.”

“What about when _I_ have to piss?” she asked, grateful for the levity, however fleeting it might be.

“I will carry you. Elrond says your survival is miraculous, but I think you are simply too stubborn to die.”

She turned her head to look at Thranduil, wishing she could lay on her side. He seemed paler than normal, shadows beneath his eyes. “I had you and the twins to think’v,” she said. “I’d breath the Earth to get back to you. I broke that fucker’s nose, and tried to rip his throat out.”

“And impaled him,” he reminded her, running his thumb over her cheekbone. “I must tell you, Firieth Dithen, that even with all my skill and experience, I would not wish to be your foe.”

“Oh, please. Without my telekinesis, you’d kill me inside’v ten seconds. I’ve felt how strong you are, and you’re faster than I could ever hope to be. Damn Elves,” she grumbled.

“That may be so, but your anger…your wrath is a strangely pure thing, if that makes any sense at all. I do not know how to explain it, for you do not see as I do. Yes, I am stronger, and yes, I am faster, but I do not think I could kill you inside of ten seconds.”

He seemed entirely serious, for all the idea seemed absurd. Lorna wondered just what it was he saw, that would make him think she’d even a shadow of a chance against him. “You’re weird,” she said, for lack of anything better. “Where are the twins?”

“Sleeping,” he said. “Their cot is beside the bed.”

She turned the other way, wincing as some approximation of pain radiated out through her chest. Sure enough, there they were, safe and sound.

“I was never afraid for them,” she said, watching them sleep, “which is all that kept me from going mad. I knew they’d be safe with you.”

“I should never have left you,” Thranduil said, touching her chin to draw her gaze back to him. “I should have listened to you.”

“If Sharley’s to be believed, it would’ve happened sooner or later anyway,” Lorna pointed out. “I’d love to give out at her over it, but something tells me pissing he off would be a terrible idea.” Her anger probably had nothing on Sharley’s, because at least Lorna was _sane_. More or less.

“You are very likely right,” he said, and paused. “I will not ask you what happened in that place, Firieth Dithen, but I hope that in time you will tell me.”

Lorna shut her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For not asking. I can’t – I don’t even want to think about it right now.” She focused instead on her surroundings – on Thranduil. She was safe. Von Ratched was dead, and yet he had got in here so easily that she wondered if she would ever truly feel _safe_ again.

“How long before I can get up on my own?” she asked

“Elrond says a month,” Thranduil said, his tone indicating he knew how well that was going to go over with her. “He does not know how you survived such a wound in the first place.”

“Couldn’t let that bastard win, could I?” Lorna asked, with a faint, humorless smile. “Though I wish I’d been the one to kill him.” Perhaps, if she had, she wouldn’t feel so violated. She had no resolution, no closure. Yes, he had paid, but not by her hand.

Who could she tell of this? Who could she confide in, that wouldn’t offer her nothing but pity she neither wanted nor needed?

Gran, maybe. _Maybe_. Gran would order her to tell Thranduil, and that she simply could not do. Fight though she had, she’d ultimately failed. She hadn’t – couldn’t – do it on her own. And she wondered if the shame of that would ever truly leave her.

Somehow, she doubted it.

Lorna didn’t want pity, didn’t want anger on her behalf, and she’d get one or both from damn near everybody – those who wouldn’t wonder why she found it so awful to begin with, since it wasn’t physical.

Thranduil would understand why it was so terrible, but she knew him – he would rage on her behalf, would wish he’d be able to kill Von Ratched all over again. He wasn’t stupid enough to pity her openly, but she didn’t want him thinking her weak. She didn’t want to be treated like glass.

She was strong. She was Lorna bloody Donovan, and she’d deal with this on her own. God knew she’d done that often enough already.

\--

Thranduil lay with Lorna while she fell asleep again, still stroking her hair.

He could not precisely regret killing Von Ratched so swiftly, for to draw it out would have been an inexcusable waste of time when she was so injured, but still. The elaborate fantasies of torment that had kept him going had ultimately been unfulfilled. Yes, the bastard was dead, but it did not feel like it was enough.

He shouldn’t think that way. Lorna was home and alive, and their children were safe. Regret had no place in this situation.

She was so pale, even now. She’d lost a great deal of blood, before he put Nenya on her finger, but it would replenish, given time. When he was here, the strange fog lifted from his mind, and he felt almost like himself. Perhaps it would heal along with her.

 _How am I to ever let her out of the halls again?_ The problem with Lorna was that there was no _letting_ at all; she did what she wanted. It was a mercy she wouldn’t be able to any time soon, or he would go mad.

There was something, he knew, that she was not telling him. She would not have attacked Von Ratched with that level of savagery for no reason, and part of Thranduil itched to find out, to search her mind while she slept. It would be an unforgivable breach of privacy, so he refrained, but still. He could not help her if he did not know what the problem was.

But, if she would not tell him, he could still be here.

\--

Once Sharley had sent Lorna, Thranduil, and Nuala home, she returned to the wreck of the proto-Institute.

She would hand the surviving staff off to the DMA, to do with what they would, but Von Ratched…

She stared at his corpse, lying in an impressive pool of dried blood, his throat a gaping hole. The man had spent two years torturing her, when she’d still been alive, and for that she had never received closure. She would have, in a potentiality that would now never be met.

Sharley was not, by nature, a vengeful creature. She couldn’t afford to be. Now, however – she would take him to the Other, where he could harm no one, and then…well.

Maybe she needed a new hobby. Reanimating the dead, perhaps.

\--

Sveta was finally able to take a day off, and she intended to make the most of it. Naturally, the universe couldn’t allow _that_.

Bridie, the tiny, ancient Irishwoman, hunted her down in her flat – damn the woman, she was a finder, wasn’t she? Sveta didn’t want to know what she wanted, because it probably wasn’t anything good.

Old the woman might be, but she stood ramrod-straight, her white hair woven into a surprisingly thick braid that wrapped around her head like a crown.

“Come in,” Sveta said. The lights in the wings of the flats weren’t fluorescent, but they hurt her eyes nonetheless.

Bridie entered, peering curiously around. Blacklights were easiest on Sveta’s eyes, but she kept a low-watt lamp for visitors. There was little in the way of furniture – a tan sofa and recliner, plus a computer desk with a huge monitor.

“Please, sit,” Sveta said. “What is it you need?”

“Lord Thranduil brought Lorna and Nuala home yesterday,” the old lady said, taking the armchair. “All three’v themre a bloody mess, but I think he might be the worst’v the lot. Something went wrong in his head, after they were taken. I don’t know what, but it worries me. He’s in no condition to be handling Lorna, and she’s in no condition to be handling him. At least Nuala’s got Molly, who’s stable as a rock.”

“Do we know what happened to them?” Sveta asked, now beyond wary.

“Nuala, nothing physical, but Christ knows what mental damage she’s got,” Bridie said grimly. “Lorna looks like she got half beat to death, and Lord Thranduil…I don’t know just what he did, and I don’t want to, but I think he went a bit cracked in the head before he even left the halls. I’m not surprised he won’t leave Lorna’s side, but he’s right creepy about it.”

“Why me, and not your doctor Barry? Aura-manipulators can influence emotions, to a degree.”

Bridie snorted. “Doc Barry’s got an ingrained fear’v Lord Thranduil,” she said. “We all do, to an extent, for all he’s turned out to be an ally. She wouldn’t dare.”

In truth, Sveta was not entirely certain she dared. Yes, she could wrangle Miranda, but Miranda was human. She’d seen enough of Lord Thranduil to have any idea of just how dangerous he could be, if he was truly unstable.

“I will do what I can,” she said, and sighed. “I make no promises, though. I have never worked with an Elf.”

“At this point, I think anything would help. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody so obsessed in my entire bloody life.” Bridie snorted. “Lorna won’t mind it now, but she will in a week or so, once she’s sick’v being bedridden, and I’d rest easier myself if he didn’t seem so cracked.”

Seta pinched the bridge of her nose. She was probably going to regret this, but she had to try.

\--

Sveta hadn’t been sure what she would find, and was relieved by what she saw, when she entered the bedroom with Bridie in tow. The twins were playing on the floor – far too large now for their ages, they watched her with disturbingly intelligent eyes.

Lorna was propped slightly up on the bed, swathed in a bathrobe, bandages, and slightly damp hair. Next to her lay Lord Thranduil, and he – _he_ made Sveta pause.

Lorna might be well-tended and tidy, but his hair was a mess, his loose black shirt a mass of wrinkles, and his eyes…Sveta could see why Bridie had called her. _Something_ had gone very wrong with him.

“Sveta!” Lorna said, slurring a little. She must be on the Elvish equivalent of the good drugs.

“What happened to you?” Sveta asked. “In Russian,” she added.

“Why Russian?” Lord Thranduil asked, eyes narrowing.

“So that she must think about what she is saying,” Sveta said patiently. “I do not need to know _everything_ , but if I am to help, I must know a little.”

Lorna paused a moment, clearly struggling for words. “I was stabbed,” she said slowly – strangely, her pronunciation was actually _better_ when she was drugged. “Right here.” She touched her chest, where the heaviest of the bandages were. “I fought with him, Von Ratched. I stabbed him first, because he…” She trailed off, and shuddered.

“Did he rape you?” Sveta asked. It was a brutal question, and one Lorna might not willingly answer. 

“No,” the woman said, shutting her eyes. “Not – no. He hurt me, but not like that.”

Sveta was no telepath, but she knew a half-truth when she heard one. She was not the warmest person in the world, but she took Lorna’s hand, infusing her mind with peace. “What did he do?”

“You can’t tell _anyone_ ,” Lorna said, and weary and drugged though she was, her eyes burned. “Not my husband, or my grandmother, or Miranda. If you do, Svetlana Mamonova, I swear to Christ I’ll hunt you down.”

A chill ran through Sveta – she had never told Lorna her last name. Tiny and wounded the woman might be, but Sveta believed her. “I promise.”

Lorna shut her eyes again, and Sveta sent her more calm. “He did something to my mind,” she said. “He made me feel – things, things I didn’t want to feel, not from him. I couldn’t stop him until I stabbed him, and then he stabbed _me_.” Another shudder ran through her. “I fought and fought and I _lost_ , Sveta. I don’t lose, _ever_ , but I _lost_.”

“No, you didn’t,” Sveta said, as soothingly as she was able. “You stabbed him, didn’t you? You made him stop. That counts as winning.”

“He still…” She’d been influenced enough that she was calm now, but Sveta couldn’t take away all of it. “He shouldn’t have been able to do it in the first place.”

“Lorna, look at me,” Sveta said firmly. “He was over a hundred years old, and monstrously powerful. _No one_ could have overcome him – at least, no one human. It is not weakness to be unable to fight off someone who had to be taken down by an Elf. You stabbed him, which is more than anyone else has ever managed. You are a human being, Lorna Donovan, and your gift is very new to you. That you had such difficulty does not make you weak.”

Lorna’s eyes were piercing when she said, “Do you really mean that, or are you just saying it?”

“Look at my mind,” Sveta said. “See for yourself.”

That she couldn’t feel Lorna’s mental intrusion was somewhat chilling, but she meant what she said. Lorna must have realized it, for she relented.

“Eventually, you must tell your husband,” Sveta said. “Not now, but someday. You can’t bear this alone forever.”

“Maybe on my deathbed,” Lorna snorted. “I don’t want him to look at me differently, and he would. He would pity me.”

Sveta sighed. “No, he wouldn’t. Eventually, you’ll figure that out, but until then, rest.” She didn’t know _what_ she was to do about Lord Thranduil – especially since he surely wouldn’t see he even needed help. Lorna was probably the only person he would listen to, and she was in no condition to say anything yet. Sveta just hoped he wouldn’t snap before then. 

“She will sleep,” she said to him. “I trust you not to push her to speak until she is ready – and no, I will not tell you what she told me. That is for her to share.”

Mercifully, he didn’t protest; it would seem that even unstable, he respected his wife enough to leave her be. “Will you return, should she need it? Molly might or might not let you near Nuala, but I cannot give Lorna all she needs.”

“You can stay near me, you eejit,” Lorna said, her voice thick with drowsiness.

“I will,” Sveta said. “Send someone for me, if you need to. Even if I’m busy, I will come when I am able.” She actually had some familiarity with Lorna; Lord Thranduil would trust her, where he might not a stranger. Lorna was likely the only hope they had of actually fixing him, but she couldn’t do it safely until she had recovered more herself.

“You have myself,” she said, trying not to twitch as she left.

Bridie said nothing until they were well away. “Do you see what I mean?” she asked.

“I do,” Sveta said grimly. “For him I can do nothing. He will have to wait until Lorna can, and meanwhile you must keep anything stressful from him, if at all you can. I wish we could communicate with the other Elves.”

“Find someone who speaks Welsh,” Bridie said. “I don’t know much’v the language myself, but theirs sounds a bit similar. Get a linguist and they’ll probably figure it all out.”

It was worth a try. If such a person was to be found in the DMA, Miranda would find them.

\--

Miranda herself was far too busy in her own right. Whatever Lord Thranduil had started was spreading, and she sat now in her office, at three in the morning, her stomach soured by coffee and whiskey.

Not fast, not en masse as it had been in Ireland, but her various sources in various governments told her Gifted had been cropping up in small numbers all over the world. It had yet to really hit the news, because nobody believed in magic, but some of the governments were smart enough to link it to Ireland.

She was sending the finders out to, well, find them, but if the rate of progression increased, that wasn’t going to work. Thanks to the mess in Ireland, the DMA was already packed, and while construction was underway to expand, that would take time.

Even now, not much was known about the actual dimension the DMA compound resided in. They knew expansion was possible, but to what extent? Just how big _was_ it? When they knocked down an outer wall, there was no light, but there was oxygen, and ground. The compound had been here well over two thousand years, but nobody had made much study of what lay beyond it. Even before the influx of refugees, they’d been busy enough as it was.

At least Von Ratched was apparently very, very dead. Word had reached her via a daisy chain that started with Bridie Monaghan – between the two of them, Lorna and Lord Thranduil had apparently taken him out with extreme prejudice.

Why did that make Miranda uneasy?

She wasn’t a precog, but she had a great deal of intuition that had never failed her in all her thirty-seven years. It poked at her now, whispering that perhaps he might have been better than whatever was to come in the future. It conveniently failed to tell her what that might be, but it hinted that they may well come to wish the fucker had survived. Stupidly powerful though he had been, he was human.

Lord Thranduil, on the other hand – they still knew next to nothing about Elves, and she had no idea what he could (or would) do if he went China Syndrome. Oh, Sharley could stop him, but that didn’t mean she _would_. Obviously she worked and thought on a grander scale than that of the individual, or she would have killed Von Ratched decades ago. If Lord Thranduil did something she deemed necessary for the timeline, horrible or not, Miranda had a sneaking suspicion she’d let him. Once she might have been human, but now she was as alien as he was.

Miranda poured herself two fingers’ worth of whiskey. She was a creature of contingency plans, having at least one for every situation she could think of, but she didn’t have one for Lord Thranduil, and she couldn’t make one without knowing more about him.

He was ancient, he’d helped contain Thorvald, and until Elrond’s family arrived, he’d been the last of his kind, alone for centuries. He had that ring, the properties of which were still mostly unknown, and even without it he’d managed to kick-start a wave of magic the like of which didn’t exist in the DMA’s recorded history.

It worried her. And that pissed her off.

She wasn’t nearly naïve enough to think their problems were anywhere close to solved, even with Von Ratched out of the equation. She only hoped they’d have a little breathing room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Sharley’s narration had to quote GLaDOS – a cookie goes to whoever spots the line. 
> 
> Title means “Homecoming” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with light and love.


	46. Dul chun cinn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna still can’t quite bring herself to tell Thranduil just what went on in the Institute (but at least she’s getting a little better), the Stranger stirs in Sharley’s mind (and makes an unfortunate decision), and Lorna and Team Elrond become ever more aware that something is wrong with Thranduil.

Lorna didn’t like being treated as though she were made of glass, but in this case, she didn’t have much choice. She hadn’t been this helpless even directly after the twins were born.

It didn’t help that Sveta kept badgering her to talk to Thranduil about what had gone on in Alaska. Lorna knew the woman meat well, but she didn’t understand what she was asking – and if she brought it up one more time, Lorna might just show her why telling Thranduil wasn’t going to happen yet.

His hovering was sweet, but yes, it really was also unfairly infuriating. Her ire was not Thranduil’s fault, and she wasn’t about to vent it to him, but it grew even harder not to. She needed _somebody_ to give out at, but there was no one who deserved it.

What made her finally snap was utterly prosaic. She needed the toilet, and she wanted to actually walk, but Thranduil wasn’t keen to let her.

“I’m not a bloody invalid!” she snarled, even as she staggered. Pain, dulled by God knew what concoction, thumped in her chest, and she grabbed the bedpost to steady herself. “I’m not fucking _helpless_!” Tears she could not actually shed choked in her throat, her eyes dry and burning.

Thranduil stood paralyzed, and it was blatantly obvious that he had no idea what to do. He reached for her, but didn’t quite touch. “You are not helpless, Lorna,” he said carefully, “but you _are_ injured. I cannot simply stand by and watch.”

Lorna knew that, she did, and she’d be the same if their positions were reversed, but still. She wanted to run, to hit something, to do anything besides being all but bedridden for God knew how much longer.

“I can’t – I just –” Coherent words were not to be found – she couldn’t give vent to this poison inside her, the festering wound of her failure to protect herself. Oh, Sveta was right – she probably couldn’t have done any more than she already had – but still. It rankled within her, deep in her mind, and there was nothing to be done for it.

“I’ve never been beaten before,” she said at last. “Not ever. And I don’t know how to live with it now.” The pain, though dulled, persisted, and she almost welcomed it.

Now Thranduil did touch her, gentle and almost hesitant. “You can, I think, learn to live with anything,” he said, smoothing the hair back from her forehead. “But Lorna, you cannot do it alone.”

It was the wrong thing to say. “Why _can’t_ I?” she snarled. “Before I came to this bloody village I did _everything_ on my own. Why should I be so bloody weak now?” She couldn’t put words around it – couldn’t express the tangle of misery and rage. Rage at the world, at Von Ratched, and at herself, for her failure. Her skin prickled hot with it, strangely itchy, the shame she couldn’t banish churning through her. 

“Lorna, do you think I managed alone, after the dragonfire?” Thranduil asked, as gently as he could. “Oh, I wanted to – I didn’t want anyone to look upon me, but Elrond, wiser than I, refused to be denied. What is it you are so adamant I not know? I know Sveta has been taxing you over it, for all I do not understand her tongue.”

Part of Lorna half wanted to tell him, but again, she could give no voice to what stewed within her. Most of her was still certain that telling him would not end well – she couldn’t handle his inevitable reaction.

God, why couldn’t she cry? It would doubtless help, but tears would not come. She shut her eyes, resting her forehead against his chest. “I can’t,” she said. “I just – I can’t. I wish I’d been the one who killed him. I _should’ve_ been.” An entirely irrational part of her was angry at Thranduil, as if he’d somehow stolen that from her, even though it was patent nonsense. She hadn’t been in any condition to do more than she’d already done. “I wish – Christ, I don’t know what I wish.”

Maybe she needed to talk to Gran. Sveta wouldn’t shut up about her supposed need to tell Thranduil, but Gran might be different. Might be.

Mercifully, Thranduil didn’t push. Instead, he ran his hands through her hair. “You need a bath, Firieth Dithen,” he said. “So long as we keep your wound dry, you can have one, and we will change your bandages.”

She couldn’t summon much enthusiasm for it, but he was right. Maybe she’d feel better after a proper bath. It wasn’t likely she’d feel worse.

Thranduil led her to the bathroom, and she sat patiently on the chilly stone floor, wondering how the hell she could get past this. She’d find a way – she always did – but just now, she couldn’t see one.

 _You are Lorna fucking Donovan_ , she told herself. _Don’t let that bastard win from beyond the grave_. This would, she knew, be so much easier if she wasn’t bloody bedridden. She had to find some way to keep her mind busy.

“Thranduil,” she said, over the chugging of the tap, “teach me Sindarin. If I don’t do _something_ , I’ll go spare.” She’d have had Gran bring her her knitting basket, but knitting didn’t take a great deal of thought.

“Will you teach me Russian?” he asked, very carefully helping her to her feet.

Lorna snorted “I don’t know near enough myself. I can teach you Irish, though. Living among all these villagers, it’d be more useful anyway.” She struggled out of her dressing-gown, winching as she did. When she unwound the bandages – and Christ, didn’t she feel like a mummy – the inner most were stained with blotches of rusty-red. She’d been asleep when Elrond treated the wound, and she wondered how he’d plugged up the hole. She’d have the scar for the rest of her life – it was just high enough to see over the collar of a shirt, unfortunately. Somehow, she had to come up with a cover story, because no way was she telling the truth.

“You are very likely right,” Thranduil said, helping her out of her pyjama trousers. It was a good thing she didn’t mind being starkers around him in a non-sexy situation, which she’d heard could be a problem for some. She didn’t even ogle when he dropped his own clothes so carelessly on the floor. Something told her that her brain wasn’t going _there_ again any time soon, so it was just as well she couldn’t be physically capable for a while yet.

“How’s this going to work, if I can’t get my chest wet?” she asked. The tub was so deep she could drown in it if she stood on the bottom, and even the seats around the sides would put her in up to her neck.

‘How’ apparently equated to her leaning back against Thranduil’s chest, one of his arms around her middle to keep her wound above water. Lorna hadn’t had a proper bath since the Institute, and while sponge-bathing might be effective enough, it wasn’t the same. The heat of the water soothed her, her hair floating around her like an anemone.

“Lirimaer,” Thranduil said, scooping up water with his free hand and pouring it over the crown of her head.

“What does that mean?” she asked, shutting her eyes. A little of the tension eased from her, for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Lovely one,” he translated, repeating the action.

For some reason, the word made her uncomfortable. “Ná lig na bastards a fhaigheann tú síos,” she said, tilting her head further back so he could more easily wet her hair. “Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

“Cheerful,” he said dryly. “I will endeavor not to.” Somehow, he managed to open a shampoo bottle and suds her hair one-handed, long fingers massaging her scalp. Lorna all but purred. 

“Do you resent that it was I who killed Von Ratched?” Thranduil asked.

“No,” she sighed, “not really. I know I couldn’t have, given the state I was in. I just –” Oh, _why_ did she have to be so weirdly, selectively mute? She wished she could drink, and maybe loosen her tongue that way, but she knew without asking that it would be a no-no right now.

His next words should not have surprised her like they did. “I do not think you weak, Lorna,” he said, as gently as he probably knew how.

“How can you not?” she asked, the words little more than a breath. Somehow, she wanted to press against him and shrink away from him at the same time. “How can you not think we _all_ are, us humans? That son’v a bitch almost killed me, and I couldn’t stop him.” It was a mercy she had that to focus on, and not…other things. Yes, she’d been weak, and he had to think it of her.

Very carefully, Thranduil turned her around, smoothing her hair back to keep the soap from her eyes. “Lorna,” he said, “have I ever lied to you?”

“Not directly.” There had been a fairly whacking great lie by _omission_ , but no, to her knowledge he’d not.

“You are not weak, Firieth Dithen,” he said, tracing the skin above her wound. “You survived what ought to have killed anyone. You did the best you could with what you had. When you have healed, we will have your telekinesis, and no one will ever catch you again.”

She wanted to believe him. Maybe she would, in time.

But she still didn’t think she could ever tell him what _else_ Von Ratched had done. Not when the words couldn’t even leave her throat. “Is breá liom tú,” she said, running her thumb down the bridge of his nose, across his left cheek. “Means ‘I love you’. Don’t forget that one.”

Someday, she’d tell him more. When she could actually find the words.

\--

In the arid heat of the Other, beneath its dull red sky, the Stranger sat, pensive, while Sharley slept within her mind. Von Ratched’s dead body was still very dead.

It had brought him to the heart of a dying forest, the needles of the fir-trees rusty-red, the scent of them bittersweet in the breathless air. Nothing else came here – even after four hundred years, the radiation level was too high for any creature with actual sense. Neither it nor Sharley wanted anyone else knowing what they were doing.

The problem was that _she_ didn’t know what she was doing. She was the daughter of Death; resurrection wasn’t her wheelhouse. Even Tanya, god of the undead, could only raise up zombie children. Von Ratched hadn’t been a child in a very long time.

The Stranger sat, and watched. Sharley would wish to hurt the man, to exact vengeance upon him for the ill he had done her. Her motives for bringing him to the Other had been just as ill, and quite unlike her. She was many things, but vengeful she was not, and the Stranger knew, even if she didn’t, just what path that would set her on. 

_“Stranger, this is a terrible idea,”_ Layla said hesitantly, hovering beside Sharley’s right ear. The voices feared the Stranger even more than Sharley did – but then, they would, given that they knew what it was.

The Stranger regarded Von Ratched, the blood on his white coat now mostly dried rusty-brown. “It is not,” it said. “We may need a spare. Thranduil is powerful, but he is not an evil creature. He may prove unwilling to do some of the things that must be done.” Theoretically, it could unwind his Time, back to a point before he died, but that would leave it with a brain-dead meat-puppet. His soul had already fled, past the boundaries of Earth, of the Other. “We must go to the Halls of Mandos, and hope that his spirit has lingered.”

A rather dreadful silence fell. _“You wanna let him back on Earth?”_ Jimmy asked, appalled.

“We may have little choice. Ten years on Earth – twenty, even perhaps a century from now, we may need him.” Time in the Other passed far more slowly than it did on Earth; physically, he’d be barely middle-aged in a hundred Earth years.

 _“It’s still a terrible idea,”_ Layla muttered. But the Stranger did not stir for no reason, and occasionally it knew things Sharley didn’t. _“And even with a non-violent excuse, Mandos might not let us have a soul back. He’s probably not in the habit of it. I mean, if he is a he.”_ Sharley wasn’t a persuasive person, but she was more so than the Stranger – and she might be able to get him to give her what she wanted, simply to make her leave.

She’d teach him the Earth custom of shaking hands. That alone might be enough.

\--

While a replica of her mother’s Mirror might no longer be urgently needed, Celebrían continued working anyway. Just because they didn’t need it _now_ didn’t mean they wouldn’t in the future.

She worked in the library, where she wasn’t likely to be disturbed. None of the Edain in this world could speak or read Sindarin; they had no reason to venture here. It was only her and the Lingerers, who drifted about and paid her no heed.

The library, she had to admit, was almost more impressive than the one in Imladris, which had long since been moved to Valinor. Seemingly endless shelves stacked with books and scrolls, over twice her height, smelling of leather binding and ancient paper.

Just now she sat near the fireplace, lanterns ablaze around her, facing a large silver bowl she’d liberated from Thranduil’s personal dishes. She knew some of the spells her mother had laid over the original Mirror, but not all of them – spells had always been mostly the province of the Istari, not the Eldar. She would need the aid of Nenya, once Thranduil could be pried from his wife’s side.

If only Mithrandir could return to Ennor. Celebrían felt the continued stirring of this magic – magic of a sort she hadn’t felt in over a thousand years. He had left Ennor long before she and Elrond, well before the Obliteration. He might well be the only one equipped to manage this sudden resurrection of magic – but, like the Eldar, the time of the Istari was over. The world had belonged to the Edain for millennia, but she didn’t think the Edain were prepared for this. Perhaps no one could be.

\--

When Thranduil decided he had no choice but to go back to work, Lorna flatly refused to be left behind.

“No,” she said, when he tried to protest. “I’ve been stuck in this bed for almost three weeks. You take me with you, or I’ll walk myself.” The twins were already out with Mairead, so they could crawl about under her supervision, and Lorna would die of boredom if she was left behind. She also didn’t want any down time that would let her think too much – she was never going to get over anything, stuck in here.

“Elrond would have my head,” Thranduil said, buttoning his grey dress/tunic/whatever.

“Not if I have his first,” she growled, sitting up with a wince. “I mean it, Thranduil. I’ll hobble after you.”

He eyed her, doing up the last of his buttons. He knew her well enough to know she meant it, so he merely sighed. “I am putting you in a chair, and you must stay there,” he said firmly. That firmness was at once warming and annoying – yes, he was trying to order her around, but he did it because he cared. Lorna could let him be a little bossy.

“Fair enough.” Given all the bandages, she still hadn’t seen the point in putting on a shirt beneath her dressing-gown, but she had on fuzzy pyjama pants and thick socks. The dressing-gown itself had seen better days – it was a quilted, worn, black-and-purple checkered plaid that had once belonged to Gran, but it was the only thing Lorna could find that actually fit. At least she hadn’t spilled food on it. Her braid was messy, but she hardly cared. She was getting out of this room – hell, maybe in a few days she’d be allowed outside. God did she miss the sun.

Thranduil lifted her very carefully, as though she were made of porcelain. That irritated her a bit, but she didn’t blame him for it; like it or not, she _was_ still quite injured. “Where are we going?” she asked, as he carried her out the door.

“The dining-hall,” he said. “Everyone seems to congregate there – it will be easier than drawing them to my study in small groups.”

He had a point. Lorna watched him closely, searching his face for even she didn’t know what. There was still something ever-so-slightly _off_ about him, something few were likely to notice. The way he moved was subtly wrong, his normally fluid stride and gestures alien in a way she could put no name to. She wanted to keep an eye on him, until she had a better idea what the hell was going on.

She toyed with his hair while he walked, letting the silky strands wind around her fingers. Perhaps it was better for _him_ , that he not know all of what she’d gone through. In this odd, altered state, she didn’t know what that knowledge might do to him – or what he’d do once he had it. She _had_ to learn enough Sindarin to communicate with Elrond and his family, because they were the only ones likely to have an explanation.

“If the weather’s nice, can we go outside tomorrow?” she asked. “I know I can’t go walking about, but I’d love a sight’v the sky.”

“So long as we do not tell Elrond,” Thranduil said dryly. “He will be irate enough as it is.”

“I’m sure he’ll live,” Lorna said, just as dryly. “How has his family settled in, now that they’ve had time to themselves?”

“Well enough, I think. It is strange to them; when last they saw these caverns, they were still teeming with Elves. Modern Ennor is even more alien to them than it is to me.”

“It won’t be so bad once they’ve learned English.” She hoped not, anyway. She could barely imagine what Earth must be like. Thranduil had at least been observing it long before she came along, even if he hadn’t actually engaged. Would they stay, now that the immediate need for them had passed? She hoped so – she’d like to talk with them, once she knew how.

 _What now?_ she wondered, as they maneuvered down the bridge to ground level. The storm had passed, the DMA was getting itself back together with its new occupants, spring was well on the way – was the nastiness over, at least for now?

Christ, she hoped so. Come May, they’d have to start planting, and hope the bloody government left them alone. Ireland was in such shambles right now that they probably had some breathing room, but the bastards would likely turn up again sooner or later. Hopefully the DMA could help with that. She just wanted to be able to spend time with her family, and the village, and not worry about the outside world. With Von Ratched dead, that might actually be possible.

The dining-hall, they found, had few people in it – if the weather was halfway decent, she’d bet most of them were outside. Gran was here, looking somewhat disapproving – though not half as disapproving as Lord Elrond, whose grey eyes were like ice.

He said something to Thranduil, and Lorna didn’t need to know his language to have a pretty good guess what it was. When Thranduil answered, his tone was so sardonic that she could easily guess what _he_ was saying, too.

“Sorry, mate,” she said. “I couldn’t stay stuck in that bed any longer.”

“So I told him,” Thranduil said dryly. “He jested that I ought to have tied you down. I assume it was a jest, at least.”

Lorna tensed, and bent the full force of her glare on Lord Elrond. “You tell him that’s not fucking funny,” she snarled. “If he says it again, I’ll cut his bloody tongue out and _feed_ it to him.”

“Lorna,” Thranduil said, his voice laced with equal parts wariness and worry, but she cut him off with a jabbing finger to the chest.

“I mean it,” she snapped, her blood swiftly rising to a boil.

He must have done as she asked, for contrition entered Lord Elrond’s expression, and not a little horror. “Goheno nin,” he said, and she was pretty sure that meant ‘sorry’.

“Yeah, well, you should be,” she said, trying to will the hammering of her infuriated heart to slow. “Put me down, Thranduil. I won’t go far, but I’ve got to get away from this twat before I do something we’ll all regret.”

It wasn’t fair of her, and she knew it, but just now she didn’t care. Lord Elrond had saved her life – she owed him a hell of a lot, but right now she itched to slap him. Memory of being restrained, even if it was by telekinesis rather than physical bonds, still haunted her nightmares, and would probably continue to for a while yet.

Thranduil looked poised to protest, but she gave him another poke, this one gentle. His pale eyes roved over her face, and she was damn glad he couldn’t search her mind. “Do not go far, Firieth Dithen," he said. “Your sister must be near. Send someone to find her and the twins.”

Being unable to take a real walk annoyed her to no end, but she understood why she couldn’t. “Okay,” she said, and sat up enough to kiss his cheek. She didn’t want him to think her perpetual irritation was with him.

He set her down very carefully, and she made her way across the chilly stone floor. Old Orla sat at one of the tables, knitting a deep red sweater, a mug of tea the size of a small bowl beside her. “And how are you in yourself?” she asked, her blue eyes piercing as she regarded Lorna.

“I’ve been better,” Lorna said, slowly hauling herself over the bench to sit facing her, “but I’ve also been worse. Another week or so and I’ll be more mobile, thank God. I’m awake often enough now that I’m starting to go spare, cooped up as I am, but Thranduil’s worse than a mother hen.” She didn’t mind it now, but she knew she’d start to, now that she was really on the mend. She’d rather be up and about before she could start shouting at him. It wouldn’t be fair to him at all if she did, but she knew herself. “What’ve I missed?”

“Not much,” Old Orla snorted. “There’s some that’ve gone every day to the DMA to help, but the rest’ve been holed up in here, exploring. We’ve been trying to figure out what to do with the twats in the dungeon, but no luck yet.”

“Christ,” Lorna muttered. She’d forgot all about them. She wished she could muster pity for them, but she really couldn’t. “Well, assuming everything doesn’t go to hell, we need to think about planting crops.” Old Orla came from a farming family – she and Gran and a few of the other geezers knew how to make do without modern equipment, which they might have to, if they couldn’t get petrol through the DMA. 

Old Orla peered at her. “What’s a city girl like you know about farming?”

“Fuck-all,” Lorna said cheerfully. “But I’m not too old to learn, now am I? We can’t go depending on the bloody DMA for everything, and might not be safe for any’v us to leave. Even if we could, the entire country’s such a disaster that there might not be much to find.”

How her life had changed in a year. Liam had died the preceding March, leaving her all but shattered, quite certain she’d never feel whole again. In May she’d met Thranduil, and the insanity had started. Even with the storm, Von Ratched, _everything_ , she wouldn’t trade any of it for a more stable, peaceful existence. Whatever shite was to come – and she knew there would be more – they all had each other.

“We need to call everybody home, if we can,” she said, thinking on the conversation she’d had with Thranduil what felt like ages ago. “Everyone who’s moved away. I don’t think this mess, this magic, is over, and they’d be safest here.” And Thranduil, she was sure, would benefit from having more than a few hundred people to look after. She suspected that was partly why he wanted them all to come home.

“Once the mobile service is back,” Old Orla said. “Can’t do much until then.”

She was right, but there was something Lorna _could_ do, once she was properly mobile: she could go to the DMA, and see if there was some way to hung down her brothers and sister. She owed it to them, even if part of her dreaded seeing them again. They did, after all, belong to a phase of her life she didn’t like to think about.

Still, it was something to do – a concrete future to look to. In the last few weeks she’d felt aimless, rudderless – an invalid with no purpose. She might not be able to help with planting, but she could do this.

Nuala and Molly, each bearing a bowl of oatmeal, approached. Lorna had only seen Nuala twice since they’d returned – Molly kept her busy, hovering far worse than Thranduil. Mairead probably would have been, too, if Thranduil had let her.

Poor Nuala still looked pale, and Lorna wondered if she had nightmares, too. What had Von Ratched done to her, when Lorna wasn’t around?

“You look like shite,” Molly said, sitting. She gestured for Nuala to sit between her and Lorna.

“I had a pole jammed through my chest,” Lorna said dryly. “I think I’m allowed. How are you, Nuala?”

“I’m…okay,” Nuala said, stirring her oatmeal.

“Nightmares,” Molly explained. “Sveta’s been to see her a few times, but whatever she does, it doesn’t stick long.”

“I hear you there,” Lorna sighed. “Look, I’m going to try to get in contact with everyone who’s moved away, and see if I can get them here. Can you help me?” Having a goal might do Nuala some good, too. At the very least, it probably wouldn’t hurt.

“Christ, there’s a chore,” Molly said. “We can try, but I don’t think you realize just how many people that’ll be. Most’v them have got families’v their own, and in-laws – if we can get them all, we might be looking at upwards’v a thousand people. You’d be surprised at how many’ve moved away from Lasgaelen in the last fifty years.”

Given that Lorna suspected the halls could hold ten times that number, that would be a good thing. They weren’t meant to be so empty, and three hundred people were nowhere near enough.

Maybe the outside world would be fine, and she was worried over nothing, but she doubted it. The Lasgaelen diaspora belonged here, if they would come. They had no reason to trust her word, since she hadn’t been born here, but there were plenty natives to extend the invitation.

 _She_ just had to get her siblings, if they were still alive and not in prison. As soon as she could walk far on her own, she’d see if the DMA would loan her a computer. She only hoped it wasn’t as terrible an idea as she was afraid it would be.

\--

Until now, Thranduil had done his best to ignore the problems residing in his dungeon, but such was their drain on his resources that could do so no longer. They could not stay here, but neither could he simply release them, and far too many people would be angry with him if he killed them all. Mind-wiping would have to do, and then he would see if Miranda would let him kick them out of a few Doors far from Ireland. If he split them up into several groups, and sent them to different places in Ennor, perhaps he need not worry about the Irish government finding them.

He wondered if Lorna would help him. He knew that the idea of such mental manipulation made her uneasy, but she was also a pragmatist – and, her gift being of lesser strength than his, possibly less likely to harm anyone.

Now was not yet time to ask. Thranduil could not precisely call her _fragile_ , but she was not herself, and no wonder. He did wonder if she remembered all the nightmares she’d been having – nightmares that made her tense and thrash, keeping him long awake. The temptation to look into her mind was always at its worst then, but thus far he had managed to resist. There were some lines he simply could not cross.

He and Elrond looked in on Celebrían, who was so intent on her bowl of water that she scarcely spared either of them a glance. Elladan and Elrohir were, Eru help him, exploring the village, no doubt as confused by its contents as he had been at first. Their _excuse_ was the burial of what remained of the dead invaders – they had seen many a corpse in their time, which could not be said of the villagers.

“This is not over, Thranduil,” Elrond said, when they returned to Thranduil’s study. “I can feel its spread. Slowly, but still it broadens.”

“I know,” Thranduil said, poking up the fire and pouring wine. “You have aided me much, Elrond. Ennor is no longer your world, and this is not your fight – I will not fault you, should you wish to return to Aman. I owe you a debt I fear I can never repay.”

Elrond’s grey eyes were piercing. “You have changed, Thranduil,” he said, taking the glass he was offered. “When last I saw you, you would not have cared what befell these Edain.”

“I have been alone for centuries,” Thranduil said dryly. “I have watched these people for generations – though apparently not as circumspectly as I thought, for a number have seen me over the years. There is more to them than I once thought – though that will make it difficult to bear, when they die.”

“And what of your wife?” Elrond asked carefully. “You do not have my choice. You cannot follow her.”

“I have no intention of letting her go anywhere,” Thranduil said. “If the last year has taught me anything, it is that there is more to this world than even the Eldar realized. The man I killed, Von Ratched, was decades older than he appeared. If he can do that, so can Lorna – I simply must divine how.”

Elrond’s gaze grew uneasy. “That is unnatural, Thranduil.”

“Perhaps,” Thranduil said serenely. “That will not stop me.” The odd fog in his mind left him without a doubt that he could do it, too. “Sharley had died, and yet she lives. It can be done.”

Elrond looked more uneasy still. “I do not know that Lorna would thank you, should you make her such a creature. That woman is an abomination.”

Thranduil had to conceded that point. Still, there had to be some way. “Well, I have time yet. Lorna is still relatively young for an Edain, and if her grandmother is any indication, her family lives long for mortals. There is a way, and I will find it.” He didn’t care if he had to fight the Valar themselves. They had, after all, granted Tuor immortality. It was not without precedent. And if they would not…well. No one could say Thranduil wasn’t stubborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Thranduil, you and your subtle crazy are not going to help matters in the least. Tuor is Elrond’s grandfather – a human, he married Idril, an Elf. For whatever reason, he’s the only mortal the Valar decided to grant immortality. As Thranduil says, it isn’t without precedent – though Lúthien and Arwen kind of got screwed.
> 
> Title means “Progress” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with hope and fuzzy rainbows.


	47. Bhuel Sin trua

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lorna continues healing (and plans a trip Thranduil will not enjoy), Sharley and Azarael pay Mandos a visit (which _he_ does not enjoy…at first), and Sharley meets the Elves’ original problem child.

It took shamefully little time for Lorna to wear herself out, but she’d be damned if she’d say so. She’d been trapped in that bed long enough, thanks so much; tired or not, she’d enjoy this outing while she could.

At least she had an actual appetite, and ate a bowl of oatmeal and jam-slathered toast under Gran and Old Orla’s watchful eyes. “You’re too skinny,” Gran said severely.

“You’re one to talk,” Lorna snorted, but Gran did have a point. Between pregnancy, childbirth, and this mess, she’d lost a great deal of muscle, and she’d have to work to get it back – though God knew how much longer it would be before she’d be cleared for it. She didn’t know just what too much exertion would do to a wound like this, and had no desire at all to find out.

Mairead came wandering in, and Lorna burst out laughing, ignoring the flare of pain in her chest. Her poor sister looked incredibly harried, and had both twins on _leashes_ , bound around their chests rather like an animal harness. They all but zoomed across the floor, surprisingly fast, given how recently they’d begun to crawl.

“They’ll be right nightmares when they can walk,” Lorna said. “According to Thranduil, Elf kids can walk by the time they’re a year old, so the twins might not be far behind.”

“God help you,” Mairead sighed, all but collapsing on the bench. “I don’t remember this being so hard.”

“You only had one at a time,” Old Orla pointed out. “It’s a world’v difference when it’s two. Once they start running about and slam into a few things, they’ll learn to be careful.”

“Orla!” Mairead said, scandalized.

“What? Mine did. Only took one’v them touching the stove to keep them away from _that_ , too. They’re both in the States now, if we’re looking to get them back.”

“Looking to get – Christ, I hope you know what you’re in for,” Mairead said, hitching Saoirse up onto her lap. Shane crawled until his leash ran out, then sat and scowled.

“You’re in for it, too,” Lorna said, wincing as she crept off the bench to sit on the floor. “I’m after our brothers and sister, if they’re to be found.” She smiled when Shane trundled over and crawled into her lap. “I’ve not seen any’v them since I was fourteen, but they used to be a lot like me.”

“Oh, _God_ ,” Mairead groaned. “Lorna, allanah, I love you dearly, but I don’t think I could handle three more’v you.”

“Well, I don’t know what they’re like now,” Lorna said, and that, really was why she hesitated. They’d stuck together all their lives, until Mam died and Social Services split them up. She liked remembering them the way they were, and she was quite sure they’d all gone the route she had, until she met Liam.

Pat, he was the eldest, and the most frequent target of Da’s belt. Siobhan had come along ten months later – Irish twins, as the saying went. Lorna turned up eighteen months after that, but it was five years before Mick, the last, made his way to the world. The three of them had protected him from Da, who apparently only had so much rage to go around.

Their childhood hadn’t always been shite. In the long summer evenings, when Da was at the pub, Mam would read to them, and during the day they’d roam as they pleased. One night she and Pat had broken into a corner shop and made off with a whole knapsack full of candy, and hid their loot in the back shed. It was a miracle they hadn’t wound up with a mouth full of cavities.

Yeah, some of it had been fun, but she couldn’t forget the nights that the lot of them – all four kids and Mam – barricaded themselves in the tiny bathroom to get away from Da, or when she and Pat would clean up Mam after Da got tired of hitting her. There had been a solidarity that was, at times, all that kept them going, and she didn’t want that shattered by whatever present reality might bring.

But she owed it to them to get them to safety, if she at all could. In another few days, when she tired less easily, she’d find out if she could borrow some internet time from the DMA, and get Thranduil to take her there. Nobody actually from Lasgaelen had cause to listen to her, but her siblings might.

\--

Azarael was never happy to see the Stranger.

It was very easy to recognize, even before it spoke. While Sharley underwent no physical transformation, the way the Stranger moved was slightly less than natural, and its non-expression rivaled his own in terms of blankness. It rarely managed to gain ascendance, and was unused to controlling a physical body, something even unobservant humans seemed to notice.

It was dragging a crude sledge, and on that sledge lay the bloody corpse of a very tall man. That had to be the Stranger’s doing, for Sharley thus far had flatly refused to kill anyone.

It dropped the sledge at the foot of the front steps, its gaze impassive. “You must take us to the Halls of Mandos,” it said. “This one’s soul must be retrieved, before it vanishes utterly.”

Sharley had made some very strange requests from him over the years, but this was certainly the oddest. Unsurprisingly, the Stranger’s explanation was slightly exasperating – Sharley did tend to botch things, whenever she tried to meddle – but for once, he was inclined to help.

Few knew it, but Azarael did have a very slight, very dark sense of humor. There was little that truly amused him, but his conversations with Námo managed it. Námo was as stately and dignified as his office required, and had fought in a devastating war – but not so devastating as that which had nearly destroyed the Other, and not half so ridiculous. Bluntly, he knew little how to, as Sharley might put it, roll with things, and was thus entirely humorless. Had he been willing to leave his Halls, Azarael might have invited him to the Other. It would certainly be an experience for him.

Many of the Valar rather disliked Azarael. He was a creature of the Lady, not of Eru, born to Earth rather than Aman. He too had chosen to leave, to retreat to this odd half-world in an admittedly fruitless attempt at hermitage. Here, he answered to no one save his fellow deities, who seemed content to largely ignore him.

Yes, he would take Sharley and the Stranger to Aman, and inflict them on Námo purely to see what would happen. While he loved his daughter, in his own way, he knew how difficult it was for others to deal with her – and the Stranger was even worse.

“Very well,” he said. “But the Valar will not allow you to bring _that_ with you. Humans are barred from Aman, and I doubt they would be pleased even by a dead one.”

The Stranger dropped the sledge without care, and followed him into his fortress.

\--

When Lorna went to bed that night, she was as close to at peace as she’d been since before the Institute. She was still stuck sleeping on her back, which she hated, but she was tired enough that she fell asleep almost immediately.

_Her dreams, as ever, were filled with the Institute, but this one was different._

_Like all the others, it was too vivid for her liking – the chill of the air and scent of floor wax as real as if she stood there in truth. Until this one, her limbs had been heavy as lead, terror coursing through her veins, paralyzing her. She’d been every bit as helpless as she was that terrible day, but this time her blood sang with adrenaline, not fear. She was strong, and free – and so very, very angry._

_Lorna’s temper had always been an ugly, vicious, cruel thing. At her size, people had always assumed they could walk all over her, and she’d taken an almost perverse joy in proving them wrong. That dark part of her, legacy of her father, drove her to make the object of her ire suffer as much as she was able. She knew that she had it in her to do truly terrible things, and had spent a lifetime guarding against it, leashing that twisted part of her soul._

_She would not do that now._

_Her rage, her hatred – all that she’d spent so long subsuming, ran free throughout her now. In past dreams, she’d fled, or tried t, but now she was the hunter, stalking the dim hallways with murderous intent. She had no weapon, but she didn’t need one; her telekinesis would be more than enough._

_But there was no one to be found – not Von Ratched, nor his staff, nor anyone. If they were hiding, she’d flush them out in a hurry._

_In the dream, her telekinesis answered to her perfectly, coiling through her and spreading out in a wave. Sheetrock cracked and buckled; the overhead fluorescents shattered as the pale tile heaved into ridges beneath her feet, groaning and shattering beneath the force of her wrath._

_“Where are you, you son’v a bitch?” she growled, while the windows shattered and icy air blasted in. “Where are you?”_

_And there he was, standing at the end of the hallway. He was every bit as intimidating as he’d been in real life, but Lorna didn’t care; she was a creature of iron-hard rage, and she would tear him apart, bit by bit –_

_He moved, quite suddenly, fending off the shards of tile with his own telekinesis, but she did what she should have done, what she would have done, had she thought of it: she focused on the beat of his heart, reaching into his chest with her mind, and_ squeezed. __

_Even in her dream, she couldn’t make him actually vocalize pain, but he staggered, the color leeching from his face and leaving it sickly grey._

_Lorna laughed – a hoarse, rusty, triumphant sound, and squeezed again, a growl deep in her chest as she dodged the debris he flung at her, trying to force a shield in front of her. She wasn’t wholly successful, but it worked well enough – she took all that she had caught, all that failed to reach her, and flung it right back at him._

_“I am not what you made me,” she snarled, trying not to trip as she stalked across the ruined floor. The volcanic heat of her rate was almost cleansing, burning away her shame, her self-loathing – she thought she understood what Thranduil meant when he called her wrath a pure thing._

_Her mental fingers dug into Von Ratched’s heart, gouging and tearing, but she staggered when he threw his telekinesis at her, her right shoulder slamming into the ruined wall. She actually felt the pop when it dislocated, but she hardly cared. The pressure at her throat, yeah, that she did care about, but it made her squeeze and tear and pull, and then, quite suddenly, Von Ratched’s heart sat in her left hand, warm and strangely heavy –_

Lorna woke, her eyes snapping open. Her own heart was pounding, adrenaline squirrel-caging through her system. Oh, if only, if _only_ she could do that in real life, but the dream was so vivid she took satisfaction in it anyway. She could still feel the meaty weight of his heart in her hand, and it made her smile in what was left of the firelight.

She was certainly wide awake now, and wished she could walk more than fifteen feet unaided. The dream had left her euphoric, almost delirious with satisfaction of a sort she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager and beaten some arsehole into submission.

Her temper had always worried Shane, her old gang leader. Most people, when it came right down to it, hesitated, however briefly, to truly hurt someone. Lorna, when her temper was up, had no such compunction, and had come close to killing more than one person – not out of intent, but because she didn’t know when to stop. When she was that angry, she was indifferent to her own pain, unafraid to take a beating in return. Injury, when she was in a towering rage, was immaterial.

But she was not that person – not anymore. She had family, and friends, and a proper home. She didn’t need that rage anymore, yet it was somehow a comfort to know it was still there. For so much of her life, it had been both weapon and shield, and though it had failed against Von Ratched in reality, she’d made damn sure it never failed her again.

“What were you dreaming?” Thranduil asked. There was no drowsiness in his voice, and she wondered if he’d slept at all. She rather envied just how little sleep he needed.

“Something good, for once.” Dim though the room was, when she looked at him, she saw him clearly – his mussed hair and curious eyes. “Thranduil, I need you to promise me something: if I ever get really, truly furious at something, let me. Don’t try to step in. Sometimes there are battles I have to fight for myself, even if you can end them quicker.” She didn’t know how to make him understand, or even if he could, but she needed him to try.

Predictably, he tried to protest, but she pressed a finger to his lips. “I mean it, Thranduil. I know you are protective, but you have to let me stand on my own feet.”

“That is not an easy thing, Firieth Dithen,” he said. “I can do no more than that.”

Lorna poked his chin. “Yes, you can, and you bloody well will. If you keep trying to do everything for me once we’ve got new people, they’ll never take me seriously.”

“Are you going to search for those who have left?”

“A lot’v us are, if the DMA’ll give us the resources. You might have a proper kingdom again.” She snorted. “And sure won’t the government have a harder time’v it, if they do come sniffing around again. They can’t try to make a thousand people disappear.” Well, they _could_ , but it wouldn’t end well for them.

He arched an eyebrow. “It ought to prove interesting, whatever else might be said of it.”

“You’re probably right. Now help me up – I need a walk and I _can’t_ walk, so guess who gets to be my legs.”

\--

The Stranger, Azarael knew, was largely immune to emotion, but it looked fascinated by Aman.

Even he had to admit that the land was beautiful. They strode now beneath a night sky packed with more stars than could be seen anywhere on Earth, the night air fresh and pure…yet he disliked it. While he was not born of the Other, it was his home, and as unlike Aman as anything could be.

But it would seem that the Stranger, like Sharley, was fascinated by the stars. The Other’s sky had none, and she had grown up beneath it, brought from Earth when she was eight years old. She hadn’t known of the Stranger yet – and quite honestly, neither had he.

But now it watched the stars, and he watched Sharley. He was no real parent to her, and never had been, but he did love her, in his own stunted way. She was his daughter, and to him that meant something – even if he wasn’t entirely sure what. It was little wonder he had no idea how to be a father, for he had had no parents himself.

He’d met enough humans in the Other to know this was what one might call a bonding experience – whatever that was. Certainly she was likely to share his opinion of Námo, who thought Azarael insane for living in the Other.

Unsurprisingly, it was Yavanna they found first. Like Azarael himself, the Valar could not precisely be called expressive, but she looked ever-so-slightly exasperated by the sight of him. That exasperation shifted to faintly puzzled discomfort when her golden eyes found Sharley.

“We must ask a boon of Námo,” Azarael said, incapable of small talk.

“Why?” Yavanna asked, not bothering to mask her suspicion.

“He has a soul we need to borrow,” the Stranger said. Its voice was still Sharley’s, but her natural Earth accent was muted, that of the Other taking its place. “I do not yet know how long we will need it, but we must have it.”

Yavanna approached her, the grass whispering around her bare brown feet. “You are not Sharley.”

“I am part of her,” the Stranger said. “She sleeps.”

Yavanna looked down at her, gaze piercing, reading he knew not what. “I will take you to Námo,” she said, “but I do not think Vairë will be pleased to see you. I do not believe you know just what you have created, Azarael, in siring this child.”

“And Vairë will?” he asked. “She does not see the future.”

“No, she cannot,” Yavanna said, “but she sees what is, with more clarity than any other.”

“That will be…intriguing,” Azarael said, with the barest hint of dryness.

The Stranger seemed entirely disinterested, still focused on the stars. Azarael truly did not know what he had created in her, but they would find out eventually.

“Stranger,” he said, “sleep. Sharley is in no peril here. Let her walk beneath the stars.”

It looked at him, and he knew the moment Sharley gained ascendance. The hint of sorrow ever-preset in her returned to her eyes, her expression shifting from wary to curious. She really did look so very like him in feminine form; there was scarcely a feature of her mother in her. “We’re getting Von Ratched’s soul, aren’t we?”  
“If Námo will give it to us, yes,” Azarael said.

“So few call him that,” Yavanna said. “To most of his charges he is known as Mandos.”

 _“Mandos, the Hand of Fate,”_ Jimmy snickered, and all four voices burst out laughing.

Sharley rolled her eyes. “Earth reference,” she said. “Ignore them.”

 _“Az, you need to go back to Earth sometime,”_ Layla said. _“You need an education.”_

“ _No_ ,” Sharley growled. “Can it, all of you. Let’s get this over with.”

\--

In spite of everything, Yavanna was rather curious. Námo would in fact _not_ be pleased, but she couldn’t eject Azarael, and she could hardly leave him to wander unsupervised. He was not of the Valar, but he was akin to them, and could cause quite a lot of trouble if left to his own devices.

She had never sensed actual _malice_ in him – he was perhaps the most neutral creature she had ever encountered, though she suspected Námo amused him. His bone-white, impassive face was almost impossible for even her to read, though his non-expression softened somewhat when he looked at that beautiful, scarred, broken abomination he called a daughter.

That he should have sired a child was… _wrong_. The Valar – and those like them – were not meant to do that. She had created the Ents, and Aulë had made the Dwarves, but Eru had given them life. They had not been born in the same manner as mortal children.

Someone, somewhere, was going to regret this poor creature. Yavanna hoped it would not be the Valar.

They both followed her in silence, though Sharley’s voices chattered away. Given that she evidently carried them everywhere, it was no wonder she was slightly mad.

Yavanna couldn’t help but wonder what the somewhat dour Námo would make of them. He took his charge very seriously, and did all he could to heal the Eldar under his care, but he was not precisely a cheerful being. He couldn’t be, given the sheer number of orcs he’d imprisoned over the millennia.

She doubted many even among the Eldar had ever really stopped to consider what happened to orcs when they died. They were descended from beings who had once been Elves, which technically made them Námo’s problem. The only ones who could be healed and released were those who had once been Elves. Those born as they were could only be imprisoned until the end of days, slumbering behind bars of iron.

Azarael had already been to the Halls, but Yavanna wondered what Sharley would make of them – and what in Eru’s name they would make of her.

\--

The Stranger stirred within Sharley’s mind, but she kept a tight lid on it. This she wanted to see for herself, dammit.

Azarael had called them the Halls of Mandos, and she could well see why. They were larger even than his fortress, and, while somber, far less dreary.

This outer hall alone could have held an entire castle, and the massive walls were covered in the most beautiful, intricate tapestry she had ever seen. The segment closest to her showed a green forest beneath a night sky, the stars picked out in threads of silver that shimmered in the candlelight.

She drifted over to touch it, heavy and silky beneath her fingertips, reading its history. Vairë, wife of Námo – Mandos, the Hand of Fate, _thank you_ , Jimmy – this tapestry was her record of all of history.

“Explore later, Sharley,” Azarael said. “You must explain your errand to Námo.”

She looked up at the person in question. Námo was as tall as Azarael, and rather pale, but it was the complexion of a living being, not Azarael’s corpse-white. His eyes were a brilliant sky blue, his long hair black, and he regarded Sharley with uneasy distaste. Fortunately, she was used to that.

“There’s a soul in here,” she said. “At least, I _hope_ he’s still here – a man named Raoul von Ratched. Tall guy, creepy eyes, probably a giant pain in the ass. I need him back for a while.”

“Why?” Námo’s voice was rich and deep, his accent quite strange to her.

“Bad things are coming to Earth,” she said. “Sometimes, the only way to deal with evil is to throw more evil at it.”

Those vivid eyes were a little too piercing as they searched hers, the weight of his mind and his vast age a physical pressure. “To release a mortal soul is a violation of the natural order of this universe.”

“ _I’m_ a natural violation of the universe,” she pointed out. “It’s not like I intend to keep him forever. I just need to borrow him.”

Námo scrutinized her for a very long while in silence. Watching him was somewhat odd – he had Azarael’s reserve, but none of his bitterness, nor his dark, well-hidden humor. He wasn’t just a gate-keeper; he was a physician to those in his care. The Valar’s physical forms didn’t age, but in his history he seemed younger, before the War of Wrath, before the Kinslaying, the death of the Two Trees –

“What are you doing?” he asked, and actually recoiled a little. Sharley was too used to the reaction to be overly insulted by it.

“She is reading you,” Azarael said. “It is best to let her.”

“You are an abomination, child,” Námo said, but it was stated as simple fact, not accusation.

 _“You say that like it’s news,_ ” Kurt snorted. _“Are you gonna cough up Von Ratched or not?”_

 _“Hush,”_ Sinsemilla ordered, in a tone even he wasn’t likely to argue with.

“Ignore them,” Sharley said. “But seriously, can we please have him for a while?”

“I must deliberate,” Námo said, still eying her slightly askance. “Wander my Halls as you will. In here, all will understand you.”

She glanced at Azarael, whose eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You may as well,” he said. “Just refrain from touching anything.”

She didn’t even want to know why he’d say that.

\--

Thranduil brought Lorna to the DMA the next day, and lingered to speak to Miranda. The woman loaned Lorna her desk and computer while she argued with him about the prisoners in the dungeon. Lorna did her best to tune them out while she hit up Google.

The problem was that Patrick, Siobhan, and Mick Donovan were all relatively common names, and she had to wade through a load of useless shite before she got the bright idea to include their birth dates as well.

She wasn’t surprised to find Mick had done his own stint in gaol, though in his case it was for petty theft and drug possession. He’d been out on probation in Dublin when things went to shit, living in a Council estate and working in a mechanic – _Shane’s_ mechanic. Well. Two birds with one stone.

Of Siobhan she could find no trace – she’d probably married at some point, and God knew what her last name was now. Pat too had done time, though in his case it was armed robbery. _Jesus, Pat_. He was out now, but seemed to have dropped off the grid.

Great. At least she could get Mick and Shane, and hopefully whatever other of her old gang members Shane kept in touch with. She just had to be able to get to Dublin, and she couldn’t go riding a motorcycle just yet. Maybe another week, and she’d take Thranduil with her. If they were going to come with her, they might as well know what they were in for – and she doubted he’d let her leave without him.

“One week,” she said, not looking up. “Thranduil, we’re going to Dublin in a week, and I don’t want you arguing. I’ve found my little brother _and_ Shane’s namesake.”

“But—” Good grief, that was Thranduil _and_ Miranda.

“No,” Lorna said, glaring at them. “Miranda, for Christ’s sake, will you not just boot our prisoners out into Australia or something? We’re bringing our own people into the halls, and we need those gobshites gone Thranduil, I’m going and you’ll not stop me, so you may as well come with me. My other brother might be somewhere about, too.”

“I hope you can ride a motorcycle,” Miranda said. “There’s still no getting that far otherwise.”

“I can, actually. I just need to let this hole in my chest heal a bit more,” Lorna said, grimacing. Fucking Von Ratched. “But seriously, just let us get rid’v the goons in the dungeon. There’s only what, fifty-odd? We can have them through here and out in half an hour.”

“This won’t end well,” Miranda sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine, but we do this my way. It’ll take a lot more than half an hour, because I don’t want them knowing where the Doors are. We have to knock them out and dump them well away.”

“Fortunately for you, we’ve got a lot’v extra people,” Lorna said. “We’ll have to borrow cars or vans, but we can drop them anywhere you like.” A slightly evil idea entered her mind. “Let’s boot them out’v whatever Doors you’ve got in Russia. It’s a bloody hard country to get into, and if you’re caught without all your paperwork, you’re a bit fucked. This lot gets found in there without any ID, in all that back tac gear, they’ll never get out.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow. “Sveta’s gonna _love_ that. Fine. Give us a day and we’ll do this, but for now I need my computer back. There’s a computer lab near the hospital – go bother them.”

“I think I’ve got what I need,” Lorna said. “I know where they were before everything went to shite, and they’re not likely to leave Dublin.”

“Why not?” Thranduil asked.

“People like us, it’s our instinct to stay put in an emergency,” she said. “We’ll not risk losing what little we’ve got, unless we’ve got no choice. Even if they did leave, they’ve probably gone back by now.”

“Do we _really_ need a motorcycle?” he asked, and had he been anyone else, he might have sighed.

“Yes,” she insisted. “And spare petrol. We’ve no way’v knowing how many filling stations’ll be open. In case you’ve forgot, it’s a long way to Dublin.”

“Oh, joy,” he deadpanned.

\--

It wasn’t long before Sharley found herself surrounded by Elves.

Each Hall was as massive as the last, but most were…not precisely homey, but less oppressive. All the walls were covered in what seemed to be one continuous, massive tapestry, but in here there were windows that cast silvery squares of moonlight on the stone floor. Rather like Thranduil’s halls, little creeks burbled in shallow channels, winding around ornamental trees and mossy stones.

Everywhere there were patches of grass with tables and benches, or else fat armchairs and low sofas. Nobody seemed in a hurry to do anything – they sat and read, or played some type of card game, or simply talked. Many were busy making things – sewing, weaving, carving. Hell, she could see what looked like a forge at the far end of the hall, glowing red.

The glances she received were more puzzled than wary, and oddly, nobody asked her just what she was doing here.

 _“D’you think they’re drugged?”_ Layla whispered.

It was a good question, but Sharley doubted it. These people weren’t apathetic – they just seemed to find their activities more interesting than a stranger. She passed among them, unhindered and unremarked, making her way to the forge. She’d never actually seen one before.

The furnace, she found, was huge, with a metal door at the top that could be raised and lowered by increments. Perhaps ten feet from it stood an anvil, with a table lined with tools off to the left. A man – Elf – was fussing with them, his back to her. Unlike the others, his clothes were soot-stained leather, with a scorch-mark here and there. There was no air of calm about him, either; he radiated such concentrated energy it was practically a physical force.

Seized by a rather perverse sense of mischief, Sharley crept up behind him, silent as a ghost. “Boo.”

As she’d hoped, she startled the hell out of him – but rather than jump, he rounded on her with a hammer almost before she could blink, and certainly before she could dodge. If she’d been alive, it probably would have caved her ribs in.

 _“Dude,”_ Jimmy said. _“Nice, Sharley. Real nice.”_

 _“Shit, look at his face,”_ Kurt added, snickering.

His expression was indeed… _something_. Hostile, mostly, but there was curiosity, too. He probably wasn’t used to being interrupted.

“You gonna hit me again, or what?” she asked, eying him. Like Mandos, his hair was jet black, but his eyes were an unsettling shade of slate.

“Who are you?” His voice was weirdly raspy, as though he didn’t often speak. 

“A visitor. What’re you making?” His history, oh, _that_ was interesting, and more than a little horrifying. Her eyes tracked the lines of his Time, back and further back, and widened at what she saw. This dude was the original Kinslayer, and all over… _what_? “Did you seriously go to war over three shiny light bulbs?”

 _“Huh?”_ Layla said. The voices couldn’t see what Sharley saw; no wonder Layla was confused. 

What little color the Elf had drained from his face, and he reached out to snatch her arm, only to recoil immediately.

“Yeah, you don’t want to do that,” she said, trying not to shudder. She hated being touched as much as other people hated touching _her_. “Fëanor. You’re a bit insane, aren’t you?”

“ _Who are you?_ ” he demanded again, staring her down. If she’d been alive, it would have scared the shit out of her.

“My name’s Sharley,” she said, rather glad she no longer needed to blink. The weight of that stare was palpable. “Now what’re you making?”

She wasn’t terribly surprised when he didn’t answer right away. Like most people, he was trying to figure out what the hell she actually was – and she wondered, given that he was an Elf, what he saw. “A sword,” he said at last, still eying her.

 _“Why am I not surprised?”_ Jimmy muttered.

“What follows you?” the Elf asked, his eyes darting at the empty air around her.

“They’ve never told me what they are,” Sharley said, which was entirely true. “Annoying, mostly. What the hell use is a sword in here?”

“There is none,” Námo said, approaching, “and yet, every so often, he will craft one nonetheless. His weapons have caused far less damage to the world than his works of beauty.”

 _“The light bulbs?”_ Layla asked.

“Yep,” Sharley said. “Have you decided about Von Ratched?”

“I cannot give you his fëa, child,” Námo said. “Not without making him a creature such as yourself.”

Her heart sank. She’d had a feeling he’d say no, but it still sucked.

 _“Well, shit,”_ Kurt sighed.

 _“No kidding,”_ Layla said.

Námo didn’t quite smile, but Sharley had a feeling he wanted to. “Do not fret,” he said. “I will loan you something instead.” He looked at the Elf. “Fëanor, I am giving you this one chance to redeem yourself. Aid this woman and her people in whatever manner she asks, if it is within your power.”

Fëanor’s exclamation of dismay was drowned out by Sharley’s and all four of the voices. “You’re joking, right?” she asked. “I’ve looked at his history. I don’t want to spend the next who-knows-long babysitting him.”

“You wanted ruthless, child,” Námo said. “There are few who have ever lived more ruthless than Fëanor. He will aid you, or he will return to me, and be trapped until the end of days.”

She looked at the Elf, who looked no happier about the idea than she did.

 _“And here Az said Námo didn’t have a sense of humor,”_ Sinsemilla sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH SNAP. Like I said, the Elves’ first problem child. For anybody not familiar with _The Silmarillion_ , Fëanor was the most brilliant craftsman the Elves had ever produced. He was also a volatile arsehole who murdered a load of his own people to steal their ships, then promptly abandoned two-thirds of his supporters to a brutal march across the frozen wasteland of the Helcaraxë…and Sharley’s about to be stuck with him. Azarael is quite wrong: Námo _does_ have a sense of humor, and it’s even more warped than his.
> 
> So, _Manos, the Hands of Fate_ is an infamously terrible B-Movie from the 1960’s. As much as I wish I could lay claim to that pun, I cannot; it belongs to _Myths Retold_ , but it was too good not to use.
> 
> I had that discussion about where orcs go when they die with a friend of mine about a year or so ago. Middle-Earth doesn’t seem to have an equivalent of hell – the Void seems to be something else entirely – and orcs _used_ to be Elves. Poor Námo.
> 
> I know, I know, Lorna still hasn’t told Thranduil everything, but don’t worry – it will come out at the worst possible moment, because I am a horrible human being.
> 
> And no, Thranduil and Elrond will not get along with Fëanor _at all_ \-- Sharley's going to keep them separated as long as she can. The fact that she has to teach him English will only make her life even more fun. Dead though Von Ratched is, we haven't actually seen the last of him. In _Plague of M_ , he proved he's quite capable of fucking shit up even in the afterlife.
> 
> Title means “Well that’s unfortunate” in Irish. As ever, your reviews make me float like clouds.


	48. Go leor Cruinnithe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Sharley seeks sanctuary to teach Fëanor, Thranduil and Lorna head to Dublin, and he meets both Shane’s namesake and the youngest Donovan brother. (Nobody involved has any idea what they’re in for. Nobody.)

To Lorna’s very great surprise, Elrond cleared her to go to Dublin a week later – though it probably helped that she hadn’t told him how far away Dublin _was_.

Bundled up in heavy jeans and a heavier jacket, she spent a while fiddling with the motorcycle Miranda was loaning her, getting a feel for it before she took it out on the road. It was a 1980 Harley FXWG Wide Glide, a monster of a thing she felt absolutely dwarfed by, but Thranduil ought to be able to ride it more or less comfortably. It also had side-runners for spare petrol canisters.

Now that they were down to it, she was both excited and nearly sick with nerves. Revisiting the past was just not something she did, and now she was going to do it literally. 

She was also, rather suddenly, nervous about showing Thranduil her past, which was ridiculous. He knew her history, in broad terms; why should she be afraid of how he’d react when he saw part of it? She knew he’d never think any less of her, no matter what she showed him.

She loaded the last of the petrol cans, wincing a bit. Her chest would hurt like a bastard by the end of the day, but Elrond had given her some sort of tonic for then. If they were lucky, Shane and/or Mick would be somewhere near the mechanic – she was betting they would be, because Shane wouldn’t want to risk getting looted.

Thranduil, once more in his modern clothes, joined her in the entryway. She didn’t need to read his mind to know just how many reservations he had about this trip, but he’d live. It would do him some good to get out more, and see the world outside of Lasgaelen – even if that world was still somewhat of a mess.

“You ready?” she asked, tossing a helmet at him. She’d never ridden with one before, but with the roads in such a state, she wasn’t about to risk it. Plus, it made sure Thranduil’s hat didn’t fly off and expose his ears to the whole damn world.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked.

“Nope. Put that thing on and let’s go.”

She’d been a bit worried that someone might notice a motorcycle leaving a random field in Wicklow, so they left at first light, hoping to avoid whatever could pass for traffic in the distorted roads. She was glad she’d worn so many layers; the dawn air was chilly on her face, and it would only get colder once they really got going. The Harley was a beast, but easier to handle than she’d thought – she’d still be sore as hell later, but probably not as much as she’d feared.

Lorna was also glad Thranduil had been on a motorcycle before, because he wasn’t sitting behind her like a sack of lead – he wasn’t even squeezing her waist too hard, though she could feel how tense he was behind her. She’d go easy on him, and keep her speed reasonable. The less attention they attracted, the better.

The sky to the east was dove-grey, with a few faint streaks of pink and gold low on the horizon. There wasn’t a breath of wind, which she counted as a damn good thing, because fighting the wind on a motorcycle sucked.

Getting through the field without tearing it up meant creeping along at five miles an hour, but it gave her a chance to feel how the bike handled. This early, the motorway was all but deserted – though she didn’t trust that to last, once they drew nearer Dublin. Still, one motorcycle wasn’t likely to attract much notice, even if the height difference between those riders was ludicrous. It was lovingly maintained, but not flashy, and she didn’t doubt that everyone who owned a motorcycle was using it to get around right now.

When they reached the motorway, she opened the throttle as much as she dared, wishing she could tear asphalt. _Someday_ , she told herself. For now, it was good to be out of the caves, under open sky. Weirdly, the fact that this was something she knew how to do, and Thranduil didn’t (yet, anyway; she’d teach him sooner or later) actually helped. He was capable of so many things that she, being human, was not, and having a skill all her own kept her from feeling terribly inferior.

And she’d need this mindset, if she was ever to be able to tell him exactly what went on in the Institute. She needed to feel as strong as she actually was.

\--

Sharley had the foresight to write a basic Sindarin-English glossary before she left the Halls of Mandos – Fëanor had wanted to use Quenya, but the other Elves on Earth spoke Sindarin, so he was overruled. For the first time in her life, she was glad she had the voices; even as strident a personality as his couldn’t override them. And it was rather nice to have them gang up on someone else for a change.

She led him not to Ireland, but to Kirk, a little Alaskan fishing village. A number of its children had seen her come walking out of the sea, some forty years ago now, after she’d bailed off the fishing trawler she’d worked aboard – once one of the crew worked out she wasn’t human. She doubted she’d been forgotten, and with any luck she could get them to accept her rather sullen companion.

It had been a tiny village then, and it was a tiny village now – like Lasgaelen, its population was shrinking rather than growing. Its main street was one of only four; it had one gas station, one restaurant/bar, a tiny supermarket, and that was it. She just hoped all the kids who had seen her hadn’t moved away as soon as they were old enough.

Fëanor would either be easier for them to handle, or much harder. On the one hand, he was obviously a living being, and wouldn’t come walking out of the ocean. On the other, he was six and a half feet of surly inhuman, who knew only basic English phrases – mostly consisting of “follow me”, “wait”, “don’t touch that”, and “stop it”. Despite this being his shot at redemption, and despite Námo’s warning, Sharley knew damn well he wasn’t going to make this easy on her. Bastard.

It was late enough that the restaurant was all but empty. It was an old building, but sturdy, the already pale siding bleached lighter by wind and salt. It hadn’t run downhill at all, since last she’d seen it – the dark bar counter was still highly polished, with nary a scuff or scratch, the stools and booth-benches still clean, sturdy green leather. It smelled like beer and fried food and clean ocean air, and though she’d only spent three days here, it felt weirdly like coming home.

There was a lone woman behind the counter – tall, pleasantly heavyset, wearing a dark green sweatshirt. Her hair was bleached a few shades lighter than it had been when Sharley last saw her, but she still recognized little Sammie Cauldry, the girl who had seen her come striding out of the waves.

Not-so-little Sammie evidently recognized _her_ , for she paled. “Holy shit,” she breathed, leaning against the counter. “Andy! _Andy!_ Sea Lady – the Sea Lady’s here!”

Sharley looked at Fëanor, who looked at her, still scowling. Evidently he wasn’t impressed by his surroundings, but she’d love to see him remain all bitch-faced when she introduced him to TV or a computer. His shiny light bulbs might have been pretty, but it wasn’t like they’d actually _done_ anything.

 _“What’re we gonna do if they panic and call the cops?”_ Layla asked.

 _“We probably met half the cops as kids,”_ Sinsemilla pointed out.

 _“And it’s not like they can kill Sharley,”_ Kurt added. _“Though they might be able to kill Tall, Dark, and Cranky over there.”_ They were all a bit hazy about how mortal Fëanor might or might not be, now that he was out of the Halls of Mandos. Elves were tough, but they weren’t any more immune to a bullet to the brain than a human, and if she got him killed so soon out of the gate, Azarael would never let her hear the end of it.

Andy came skidding out of the kitchen door, and yeah, Sharley recognized him, too. He’d been a skinny, wheezing asthmatic kid, with a shock of bright red hair and a face more freckle than skin, and he looked like a skinny, wheezing, asthmatic adult. “Sea Lady,” he said, wide-eyed. 

“Sharley,” she said gently. “I was hoping some of you guys would remember me.”

“Kinda hard to forget you,” Sammy said. “Sal named her boat after you, you know. We always wondered if you’d come back. Who’s your, um, friend?”

“He’s not my friend – I’m his babysitter,” Sharley grumbled. “I was hoping we could lay low here until I can teach him English and get him used to the real world.”

Sammie looked a bit doubtful, and no wonder. To a human, Fëanor had to be terrifying. “Is he gonna kill anyone?”

“No,” Sharley said, and hoped she was telling the truth. “He’s on probation, basically, and he knows what’ll happen to him if he fucks up.”

“What’s that?” Andy asked.

Sharley smiled, not entirely pleasantly. “Me.”

\--

Thranduil decided in short order that he was simply never going to enjoy travel by motorcycle. While Lorna was not half so reckless a rider as Julifer, it was still simply too _fast_.

It certainly didn’t help when they reached actual traffic. He wondered how in Eru’s name a creature as fragile as an Edain could want to travel unprotected amid so many things that could quite easily crush them, but Lorna, Julifer, and Miranda seemed to _like_ it. Perhaps it was some narrow, specific madness he had never before suspected.

As they drew near Dublin, the sun now high in a sky slightly hazed, he could smell a very faint odor of smoke – so faint he doubted an Edain would be aware of it. The cars were down to a single file, the rest of the road crowded with strange machinery. The Edain repairing the cracked and upheaved surface spared them not a second glance, which was honestly rather strange – never in his life had he been so thoroughly overlooked. In this case, he could only count it a blessing.

Dublin, they found, was still a mess, though work was being done everywhere. The debris was gone, but the scars remained – scorch-marks on the walls of stone buildings, while all that was left of some wooden structures were charred, blackened ruins. The smell of smoke was heavier here, though there were no evident fires.

And there were Edain everywhere, busy as termites. They bounced back from disaster with a speed the Eldar could only envy, with masons and carpenters hard at work repairing what could be salvaged. They warmed about in strange helms and vivid orange vests,, with machinery of a sort he could not hope to identify.

May of the roads were closed, but Lorna navigated the maze of the city with relative ease, the rumble of the motorcycle echoing off the buildings. The minor roads were rather messier, and still more damaged, and Thranduil reflected that Edain cities, while intriguing, were so ugly to Elven eyes. How had Lorna managed to stand growing up surrounded by so much unnatural stone? The air had, to his senses, been foul even when they came here when the twins were born. Why anyone would willingly endure it, he couldn’t imagine.

The last street they turned down was rather shabby, made up entirely of shops. Most of the windows were boarded over, signs crooked or missing entirely. It was grey and ugly, without so much as an ornamental tree, and he eyed it with distaste.

He had a firm enough grasp on the various fonts of the Roman alphabet to read the faded sign above a nondescript door – it read, unimaginatively, ‘Shane’s Mechanic’. Naturally, the door was locked when Lorna tried it.

“Well, fuck,” she grumbled, scowling. “He’s in there – I can feel his thoughts. Oi! Shane Corcoran, if you don’t open up in the next thirty seconds, I’m ripping your bloody door off!” she called, hammering on it.

It took a moment, and the sound of several locks sliding back, but the door opened to reveal a man every bit as tall as Big Jamie, and as wide. He had a heavy mane of brown hair that hung well past his shoulders, and curious designs inked into the skin of his bare arms. His eyes, a slightly murky hazel, widened.

“Lorna fekkin’ Donovan?” he asked.

“That’d be me,” she said, with a crooked grin. Speaking to him, her accent was thicker, harder – doubtless slipping back to what it had been in her youth. “We’ve come to get you, and Mick, and any’v the old gang you still know. Shite’s coming, and I want you lot safe.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” the man asked, his gaze turning to Thranduil. Wariness entered his ruddy face, and Thranduil eyed him back, intrigued.

“My husband and I. Thranduil, this is Shane. Shane, Thranduil.”

“Lorna, what’ve you gone and got yourself into?” Shane asked, more wary than ever.

“Let’s get inside and I’ll tell you.”

The man led them into a room that was cramped and run-down, but clean, the walls lined with racks of metal tools. The lighting was dim, and flickered occasionally.

“Thranduil here, he’s not human,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

Shane snorted. “Bit obvious, that.”

“Most don’t think so,” Thranduil said, more curious than ever.

“Then most people’re idiots. Nothing human’s got eyes like yours. No offense,” Shane added. “What _are_ you?”

“He’s an Elf,” Lorna said. “He knocked me up the day we met, and eventually we got married.” She laid the entire story out in a few blunt, concise sentences, and even Thranduil had to admit it sounded ridiculous.

“Anyway. I found you and Mick on Google,” she said. “The whole village is with us in the caves – and sure Christ, they’re beautiful – and I wanted to get everyone else I call family there, too. This shite isn’t over – it’s just died down for a bit.”

He was taking this, Thranduil thought, remarkably calmly – either that or he didn’t believe half of it. He watched Lorna, and Thranduil himself, and the assessing weight in his gaze was rather familiar – Lorna must have acquired it from him.

“I’d think you were a right nutter, if I didn’t know you,” he said, after a long pause. “But Lorna, I can’t just go leaving my shop. I worked hard for it, and I’ll not throw it away.”

“Grab everyone we can find, and just haul as much’v it as we can with us,” she said, as if it were the most rational idea in the world. “Shane, if things go to hell, what you’ve worked for won’t mean shite. I want you _safe_. Christ, I named my son after you – you owe me.”

 _That_ gave him pause. “You did?”

“I did,” she said. “Christ knows you half-raised me, for all you’re not much older than me. Now will you get that daft brother’v mine, and anyone else you can reach? If I have to knock you out and tie you to the back’v my motorcycle, I’ll do it, but I can’t pile _all’v_ you on there, and I’ve already committed grand theft auto once. I doubt I’d get away with it again.”

“And knocked out a police officer,” Thranduil said blandly. “You cannot forget that.”

Shane’s eyebrows rose. “Why am I not surprised?” he muttered.

“You are absorbing this with remarkably equanimity, Master Shane,” Thranduil said. “Why?”

“He means you’re taking it well,” Lorna translated.

Shane snorted. “Your brother overran his entire tower block with some plant or other,” he said. “I’ve kept him high ever since, or the whole street’d be buried. There’s not much as can surprise me now.” He paused. “I never forgot the bus, either, for all you and Kevin thought I did.”

Lorna froze, eyes widening. Thranduil was not surprised – she had told him of the bus, and what she had seen to make her crash it. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

The man shrugged. “What was there _to_ say? It’s not like I could do anything about it. After whatever the bloody fuck it was – after all the shite that happened a month ago – an Elf’s not exactly shocking. Though I’m not sure anyone else’ll think so.”

“Will you call them?” she asked. “It’s not safe, and it’ll be even less safe sooner or later. I’m after Pat and Siobhan, too, but I haven’t found anything much on them.”

Shane looked at Thranduil. “Mate, have you got any idea what you’re in for, if a load’v us turn up?”

“More or less,” Thranduil said dryly. “As I understand it, many of you are rather like Lorna. Lasgaelen itself is somewhat…unique. I believe I will adapt.”

“Well, I’ve got Mick, and I’ve kept in touch with Orla and Little Nolan. Big Nolan’s in prison, so far’s I know. Attempted murder.”

Lorna winced. “How attempted are we talking?”

“Almost close enough. His da tried to steal his drugs.”

“Christ,” Lorna muttered. “Well, we’ll deal with that whenever he gets out. Meanwhile, Thranduil here needs to meet Mick.”

“God help you, mate,” Shane said, shaking his head. “Mick’s like Lorna, but worse.”

It was probably wrong, that Thranduil rather looked forward to it.

\--

Fëanor was not impressed by what Ennor had become – not, that is, until he saw the great, hulking metal things Sharley called ‘cars’.

They approached this shabby building one at a time, lanterns lit by something brighter than flame cutting through the darkness. They moved without horses, without any means of propulsion he could see – some very fast.

He left Sharley inside, plunging out into the frigid night. The scent of the sea was very strong, and it stirred in him memories that were wholly unwelcome, so he shoved them aside.

 _Edain_ had crafted these things? He touched one that sat empty, and found the metal as smooth as anything an Elf might forge. The wheels were of some strange material he could not identify – had they created something entirely new?

He wanted, so very much, to take one apart. Unfortunately, he had no way of conveying this to Sharley – he needed to learn her language, since he had little doubt he would manage it more swiftly than she would learn Sindarin.

She came out and dragged him inside, passing a mug of some hot liquid into his hands, miming for him to drink. He hesitated, for the food of the Edain was surely inferior to Elven fare. Nevertheless, he sipped, and his eyes widened in surprise.

Never had he tasted such a thing. It was sweet, but not _too_ sweet, and lingering. He took another, larger sip, and wondered what other things Ennor might surprise him with, though he eyed the crowd of Edain with faint disdain. 

Before his death, he had never actually seen an Edain, but compared to Elves they seemed soft, weak creatures, taking their first and last breath in little more than a blink.

And yet they had made those conveyances outside, and could generate light without a flame. Perhaps this excursion into Ennor would not be as dull as he had feared.

\--

There was something strange and sorrowful about seeing all of these people as adults. Sharley was so unused to dealing with the living anymore that it was easy to forget how swiftly they changed.

Some of the children had moved away, seeking better prospects outside of Kirk, but many remained, distrusting the outside world. They made their living off the fishing industry, and though they had modern technology, there seemed to be plenty that was more than a little outdated as well.

They were, for the most part, a hard-bitten group now, weathered and sturdy, and several sported the telltale broken facial capillaries of alcoholism. Hell, some of them were in their fifties now, and they were all staring at her and Fëanor.

“You’ve been away a long time, Sea Lady.” That was Jackie, Sammie’s elder sister. She’d been tall and stringy as a teenager, and she was tall and stringy now, her curly dark hair grey at the roots.

“I’ve been busy,” Sharley said simply, “but I need your help. I have to teach that one English, and get him acclimated to this world.” She pointed at Fëanor, who seemed absorbed in inspecting his hot chocolate. “He’s an Elf, and he got foisted on me. And before any of you say ‘there’s no such thing as Elves’, keep in mind that I’m basically a zombie.”

That argument did not appear to have much sway with them, and they all eyed Fëanor rather askance. Not that she could _blame_ them – he was an intimidating dude, even when he wasn’t trying to be.

“Does this have something to do with the shit in Ireland?” one man asked. Martin, that was his name – Jackie’s teenage boyfriend, whose Inuit grandmother had warned him about things that came from the sea.

“It has everything to do with it.” Sharley sighed. “What happened there is spreading, but fortunately it’s spreading slowly. With any luck, it’ll be a while before it hits the news. I have to get Fëanor there used to Earth before it does.”

Sammie shook her head, with a slightly rueful smirk. “You turned everything upside down when you were here last time, Sea Lady,” she said. “Why the hell not? He’s not gonna hurt anyone, is he?”

“No. Honestly, give him an old car or something to take apart and he’ll be happy.” She had a feeling he’d take apart all the technology in town if he wasn’t watched carefully. Hopefully it would occupy him, and keep him from doing anything…unfortunate. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t _deliberately_ harm anyone, but he could get up to a hell of a lot of mischief without knowing what he was doing.

Goddammit.

\--

When Thranduil met Lorna’s brother, he knew he was in trouble.

The man was on the short side for an Edain, though not nearly as short as his sister. They looked remarkably alike, wiry and sharp-featured, hair black as ink, though his had no silver. Only the eyes were really different – Mick’s were nearly as dark as his hair. The first words out of his mouth were, “Jesus, Lorna, you sure married up the food chain. If I swung that way, I’d have it off with him myself.”

Lorna, naturally, burst out laughing. “Careful, you’ll make him blush,” she said. “You’ve got to come with us, Mick. You need to meet our other sister, Mairead. I think she’s what Mam would’ve been, if not for, y’know, _Da_. And the rest’v the village…yeah. You’ll love in there.” She eyed him. “How’d you get your ability under control without help? So far as I know, nobody’s managed that. _I_ sure as hell didn’t.”

He shrugged. “Dunno. After that first morning, I just…did. Had a lot’v help from your mate Orla – she’s easy to be around. I just wish she wasn’t a lesbian.”

“Wasn’t a – well, that explains a few things,” Lorna muttered. She glanced at Thranduil. “You think she could be an empath?”

“It’s entirely possible, though we will not know until we see her,” he said.

“Well, you’ll see her soon,” Shane said, emerging from a tiny back room. “Her and Colin and Little Nolan. They’re the only ones I’ve found, once I got out’v gaol.”

If they were anything like Shane and Mick, they would be more than enough. Clearly, the outside world was even more interesting than Thranduil had thought.

“We’ll, I’m still after Pat and Siobhan, if they can be found,” Lorna said. “If you’ve got it and you want it, pack it, but keep in mind, it’ll be hard going on anything but a motorcycle.”

“You must let me check your wound first,” Thranduil said, “and drink your tonic.”

“Wound?” Mick asked. “What happened?”

She made a face. “I got stabbed through the chest a month ago – long story, don’t ask yet.”

Shane eyed her, and Thranduil didn’t wonder why. The Lorna he had known would have been unlikely to let anyone get the drop on her; her criminal record was testament to how well that had gone when anyone had tried, but those had all been back-street scuffles, wherein she’d been underestimated due to her size. “I’m asking later,” he said darkly.

“Do not press her,” Thranduil warned. “She will speak of it when she wishes to.”

He spoke with such harshness that Shane actually recoiled a little, but he didn’t’ care. Lorna had recovered much from that terrible day, and he would not have anyone or anything setting her back.

 _It’s okay_ , she sent him, touching his hand. _Shane’s no dummy. He won’t pry._

Thranduil looked down at her, and found her looking up at him. _He had better not._

“Berk,” she said aloud, but fondly. “Seriously, you two. Get your shit, get everyone else, and let’s go. I’m still technically wanted for assault – I’d rather not linger.”

“You should not have rendered that guard unconscious,” Thranduil said, with a touch of dryness.

“Yea, well, I’ve never been great at thinking on my feet,” she grumbled.

“Sure God isn’t _that_ the truth,” Shane said. “Mick, pack up. I’ll call everyone else.”

Lorna grinned. “Thranduil, your life is about to get way more interesting.”

“I would not expect anything less.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They will find the next Donovan sibling next chapter, God help Thranduil (and Lasgaelen, really).
> 
> Chapter means “Many Meetings” in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my brain. Om nom nom.


	49. Foghlaim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Fëanor takes to modern Earth worryingly well, Lorna and Thranduil get their little group back to the halls (with an unforeseen addition), and poor Mairead. Just…poor Mairead. We also see the return of Jennifer (sort of).

Fëanor was not at all impressed by the quarters they were given – shabby rooms in what appeared to be an inn. At least, he wasn’t impressed until he saw the bathing room.

The bathing-tub was self-explanatory, but Sharley showed him the metal knobs that, when turned, produced hot or cold water. The strange mental spigot above the tub produced something very like rain, the heat of which could be controlled by a knob.

These Edain, he was discovering, were something of a paradox. The things they crafted were unlovely, crude by any standard, but what they _did_ …even Elves had to heat bathwater with fire. They were reliant on candles for lighting, and horses for transport. He had dreamt of finding a way to dispense with all of those things, but he had never actually _done_ it. These Edain, without the aid of Elves or Dwarves, had managed things beyond the accomplishments of either.

And then had come the roaring in the sky.

It was not thunder – it was not anything he had ever heard. He had gone outside, staring up at the dawn sky, and seen… _something_.

High as it was, it had to be very large, with wings held stationary, lights blinking along it. He’d looked at Sharley, who appeared completely unimpressed – were such things common here?

“Airplane,” she said, and he repeated the unfamiliar word, which was bereft of meaning.

She showed him the switch that controlled these flameless lanterns, and how to work the various taps in the bathing-room, and left him to it. She had mentioned in the Halls that she did not sleep; presumably, she was off on some errand of her own.

Fëanor was not remotely tired, so, once he had exhausted all the things there were to study within his rooms, he went for a walk.

Being so near a sea was…unsettling, given the _last_ things that had happened when he stood upon a shore. This one was far colder, and he sensed traces of an odd, alien foulness in the water. The air and water of Ennor were not as they once were; even the earth beneath his feet felt strangely tired. Just how long had he spent in the Halls of Mandos? Time was immaterial there, but it would appear he had been dead for a very, very long while.

What, exactly, was he meant to do here? Námo had told him to aid Sharley, but not in what capacity. If he studied the works of these Edain, he could likely improve upon them, but he was as yet uncertain what else Námo – and Sharley – had in store for him.

Learning the language was his first priority – he had little doubt he would master it before Sharley managed the much-hated Sindarin. He had no desire to meet whatever Sindar might still linger in this world. Unfortunately, he feared _that_ was an eventuality.

\--

Orla had been a big, strapping teenager, and now she was a big, strapping woman – a nearly six-foot-tall, sun-browned, muscled Amazon with more tattoos than Shane. Her hair was almost as pale as Thranduil’s, though it looked like sun-bleaching rather than peroxide.

“You haven’t grown any, have you?” were her first words, as she thumped a worn canvas duffle bag onto the floor.

“I missed you, too,” Lorna said, and winced when Orla pulled her into a hug. 

Rather like Shane, Orla regarded Thranduil warily. No kid survived long on the streets without really paying attention to what was around them – unlike the people at the hospital, she and Shane weren’t the sort to rationalize away the strange. Assessing threats became second nature, and though Thranduil meant no harm, he _could_ be a very great threat. 

“Figures you’d be the one to find the last non-human in this bloody world,” she said. “He’s doing right by you, is he?”

“Yes,” Lorna said, slightly exasperated. “Have you got your shite?”

“I have. Is there booze where we’re going?”

“Barrels’v it, literally.”

Orla shook her head. “I dunno, Lorna. Magic, Elves…I’m trusting you against my better bloody judgment.”

“Why against your judgment?” Thranduil asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.

“I’m not fond’v what I can’t predict,” she said bluntly, “and the last month has been a right trial. I’ve never put much stock in anything I can’t see or touch, and now there’s…this.”

“Just wait ’til we get where we’re going,” Lorna said. “Plenty to see there, but not if we don’t shift ourselves. Where’s Little Donal?”

“Getting his gear stowed,” Shane said, hefting his own bag over his shoulder. “I’ve got mine together.”

“Good. Thranduil, gimme whatever tonic Elrond gave you.” It was all she could do not to rub the damn wound.

“Is your scar anywhere decent?” Shane asked. “I mean, anywhere we could decently see?”

She didn’t have to pull her collar down far to show it. It hadn’t been a clean wound, for the pole had been blunt – the skin around the edges had torn and pulled, and the lines radiated around the edges like a child’s attempt at drawing a sun. The damn thing was still quite red, too.

“Jesus bloody Christ – Mick, get out here and have a look at your sister,” Shane said, peering at it with widened eyes. “How the hell did you survive that?”

“My husband there,” she said, pointing at Thranduil. “Elf medicine, it’s…something else. I’d’ve bled to death if he hadn’t found me.”

“You would never have been injured at all, had I found you ten minutes sooner,” Thranduil said, a harshness to his tone that she didn’t at all like.

Lorna elbowed him. “Oi, no beating yourself up over _that_. We all got out alive, didn’t we? And the scar…well, scars are badass.” She had no doubt Elrond could give her something to fade it, but she wasn’t sure she wanted him to. Yes, it was a reminder of something awful, but it was also a mark of survival. If she’d survived getting impaled through the chest, she’d probably survive anything short of actual decapitation.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “You have a very strange set of priorities, Firieth Dithen.”

“This isn’t news,” she said, giving him a slightly crooked smile. “Let’s go.”

\--

When Sharley took Fëanor to Martin’s auto shop, she found there was something even more worrisome than anything she’d seen thus far.

It was a cramped little place that was actually attached to Martin’s house, with only enough room for one car at a time. That one was, at the moment, a battered, dark blue Dodge Dart, currently gutted, the engine suspended before it.

She wasn’t at all surprised at Fëanor’s curiosity – he examined the various parts and tools, none of which he would recognize. The _worrisome_ thing was just how fast he seemed to be figuring them out.

“Has he ever seen an engine before?” Martin asked quietly.

“Nope,” Sharley said, a little grimly. “Until yesterday, he’d never seen modern technology, but he’s a twenty-thousand-year-old genius. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had that car figured out in less than a week.” She had to find some way to keep him entertained, because she did not want to _know_ what he would do if he got bored.

“Do you ever get to send him back _home_?”

“I sure as hell hope so.” Námo hadn’t actually said anything about Fëanor returning to the Halls, or anywhere else. If she was stuck babysitting him forever, she’d throw the voices at Námo until he relented. If that didn’t work, she’d knock him down and stick her cold, dead hands on his face. She’d like to see him remain all serious and dignified _then_.

Hopefully, she’d have a use for Fëanor before he got bored. In three out of five potentialities, she would – though she could do without one of them, as could the rest of the world. Unfortunately, it looked to be the most likely.

 _At least there won’t be any Balrogs_ , she thought.

\--

The ride back garnered rather more attention, given the bikes and their odd assortment of riders.

There was enough traffic now that they took the long way, heading to Lasgaelen rather than risk being caught disappearing in a field. Thank bloody God all the bodies were gone, or she’d have a hell of a time coaxing any of them on further.

The afternoon sun was fierce and hot, warming Lorna’s face against the wind chill. Whatever tonic Elrond had given her worked like a dream – she was so pain-free she had to be careful not to overdo it, or she’d regret it later.

Traffic thinned out the further they got from Dublin, and she dared push the motorcycle a bit faster, grinning a little when Thranduil’s grip tightened a bit around her middle. It was good to keep him on his toes.

The Kildare exit was still something of a mess, but passable, and they wound their way toward Lasgaelen. Lorna wished they could have seen it when it was still a real village, but maybe someday, when it was safe, some people would want to live on the surface again.

Granted, from the motorway she couldn’t _see_ it at all. Thranduil’s enchantment was so complete that, if she hadn’t known there was a village there, she never would have guessed there was supposed to be one. Riding through it was damned unnerving, though there was no actual physical sensation to it. One moment there was nothing but empty fields, and then there were buildings and empty streets.

Even in the sunlight, even with the bodies gone, it was _creepy_. It felt every bit as empty as it was, last autumn’s leaves curled at the sides of the pavements, heavy over the drains. The abandoned SUV’s still sat where they had been left, grimy now from dust and wind.

However, halfway through town they discovered it was not as empty as it seemed. A woman in worn jeans and an even more worn red tank top was prowling Main Street, looking both worried and distinctly pissed off.

Lorna hadn’t seen Siobhan in sixteen years, but there was no mistaking her. While she wasn’t _quite_ as short as Lorna, she’d topped out at five-foot-two, and she was still every bit as wiry as Lorna and Mick. Her hair hung just past her shoulders, cut in some feathery way that probably looked a lot better when it was actually styled.

“Siobhan bloody Donovan, what in fucking hell’re you doing here?” Lorna demanded. “How did you _find_ here?”

“I didn’t know where else to go,” her sister said. “I was hoping we still had family here, but there’s bloody _no one_ here. I didn’t think there was any _here_ here until I tripped and hit that bloody van over there.” Her voice had the kind of hoarseness that came from too many years of too many cigarettes.

“Er, yes there is – just not _here_ here,” Lorna said. “We just…hid them. And, you know, the village.”

“Lorna’s gone and married an Elf,” Mick said, as though it was the most natural, logical thing in the world. “Take off your helmet, mate. Christ knows you’ve got better hair than all’v us combined.”

Lorna choked on a laugh, but Shane didn’t bother stifling his. Thranduil didn’t actually sigh, but she had a feeling he wanted to.

“I rather think your sister would strangle me,” he said.

“Which one?” Mick muttered.

“Oi, I heard that!” Siobhan snapped, glaring. “I’ll fetch you such a slap, Michael Donovan. You see if I don’t.”

Lorna could feel Thranduil’s amusement pressing against her mind, and she elbowed him lightly.

“So much suddenly makes sense,” he said, not bothering to keep his voice down.

“Hush, you. Siobhan, climb on with somebody, will you? We’ve got a ways to go, and it’s off-roading.” Christ, she was _really_ glad they’d got rid of the bodies, or Siobhan would probably have taken one look and then taken off.

“Lorna, we are not taking these motorcycles through the forest,” Thranduil said firmly.

“Okay, one, we can’t leave them outside, and two, we can’t just carry everyone’s shite that far,” she protested. “I’ve got to get this bike back to Miranda, anyway. It’ll only be the once.”

How he could manage to grumble without actually making a sound, she didn’t know. “Just once,” he said. “We will store these monstrous _things_ in the halls.”

Lorna wasn’t the only one who laughed. Out of the lot of them, only she and Siobhan hadn’t had a burning passion for motorcycles – she liked them well enough, but wasn’t exactly bothered that she didn’t own one.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” she said, to the group at large. “There’s some things about the modern world he’ll always hate, which include everything that runs on petrol.”

Siobhan snorted as she clambered onto the back of Mick’s bike, and Lorna reflected that she was going to need a nickname, given that Lasgaelen had already got a Siobhan – they had a Mick, too, come to that, and an Orla. Lorna was going to do her level best to get her sister called ‘Little Siobhan’, purely for the hell of it. She wasn’t the only shortarse anymore – well, not the only one younger than Gran, who could be so intimidating she seemed much taller.

They made their way across the fields in a careful line, and even more carefully navigated the forest floor. Elrond’s twins and some of the villagers had cleared away most of the felled branches, but it was still rough going, and she winced each time a bump or dip jarred the bike. More of that tonic would be necessary.

She couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for Mairead – getting hit with two more of her half-siblings at once was probably going to be a bit overwhelming, but on the bright side, they’d make Lorna herself look remarkably well-adjusted.

\--

This thing, this car, was _fascinating_. 

Fëanor didn’t yet know what powered it, but its inner workings were at once simple and complex. He could see what each _would_ do, were it to move, but even he would not have thought to craft some of these things.

Sharley, radiating amusement, stood beside him, and gave a name to each thing he held up or pointed to. Thus he learned ‘engine’, ‘exhaust manifold’, ‘carburetor’, and ‘spark plug’. The language of the Edain was singularly unlovely, but he was already picking up basic phrases.

Under her watchful eye, he assembled each component and replaced it as he found it. She inspected his work, and seemed to grudgingly find it satisfactory, because she produced a strange-looking key, beckoning him to follow her to the left side of the car. He watched her insert the key into a slot and turn it, and the engine roared to life.

He stepped back around to look at it, and rested his hand on the engine, feeling the vibration of its inner workings. The metal was cool beneath his fingertips, but he had a suspicion it would not remain so for long.

Fëanor drew back again, letting Sharley shut the hood, and against his better judgment sat in the right hand seat when beckoned. When she sat, she pulled some form of harness across her body, and he mimicked the action, since she probably did it for a reason.

She backed the car out of the building, smirking very faintly, and drove along the gravel path to the strangely smooth road. It was early enough that there were few others to be seen.

The speed and smoothness of the ride was disquieting – but not half so much as when they pulled out onto a long, straight stretch outside the two, and the car shot forward.

For a moment, all Fëanor knew was sheer, unbridled terror. Nothing – _nothing_ – was meant to go this fast, and he tensed still as a statue, certain that she was going to drive straight off the road and kill them both.

But after that moment – that gut-wrenching, alien fear – he found it amazing. No, nothing was meant to go this fast, and yet it did. And these things, these cars, were common, eliciting no wonder at all from the Edain.

No, Ennor was nowhere near as dull as he had feared.

\--

Thranduil would never tire of seeing the wonder of those who entered his halls for the first time. They had gone unappreciated for far too long, and the reactions of the Edain never disappointed.

“Bloody Christ,” Mick said. “How – you’ve got _trees_ down here. How does that _work_?”

“Magic,” Thranduil said. It was a gross oversimplification, but it was broadly true.

“You’ll get that explanation a lot,” Lorna said. “And good luck getting anything more. Elves are mysterious bastards.”

“At least you will never get bored,” he said, looking down at her, quirking an eyebrow at her mock scowl.

“I was promised booze,” Orla put in.

“Yeah, yeah, c’mon,” Lorna said, wincing as she strode along.

“Is she always like that?” Thranduil asked.

“From what I remember, she’s usually worse. Let her drink herself unconscious and she’ll know to be careful later. Actually, they all will. You won’t convince them otherwise.”

“Has this place got wifi?” Siobhan asked from behind them.

“Does it _look_ like it would?” Mick asked, not a little witheringly.

There came the sound of a smack. “Never hurts to ask.”

“Jesus, Siobhan, you hit like a damn sailor. Ow.”

Thranduil fought a smirk, and lost. He could only imagine what Mairead would make of them. Whatever her reaction, he wanted to watch.

It would seem he was to get his wish – he led his hungry companions to the kitchens, where he found a number of the villagers, Elrond’s twins, and Mairead, who was quarreling with her husband over the stove. The fire was roaring so high that even the vast room was roasting, and there was a very strong odor of alcohol.

“Oi, Mairead! Leave off and get over here. You’ve got more siblings to meet,” Lorna said, biting the inside of her cheek.

“I’ve got –” Mairead turned, and paused, and paled a little.

The effect would not, Thranduil thought, be quite so jarring if the three of them didn’t resemble one another so closely. As it was, they could have been triplets.

“You’re the one that escaped, aren’t you?” Mick asked. “Christ, you were lucky.”

“You don’t half look like Mam, too,” Siobhan added, eying her.

“Jesus, doesn’t she?” Mick said. “Hair and everything.”

“There’s three’v you,” Mairead said, sounding vaguely horrified.

“Technically, there’s four,” Lorna supplied helpfully. “We just can’t find Pat yet. You knew how many’v us there were.”

“Knowing isn’t the same as seeing,” her sister said, and privately, Thranduil had to agree. Had Lorna and Siobhan shared the same eyes and length of hair, the only way to tell them apart would be the slight difference in height, and that Siobhan had no silver in her hair. Facially, she and Lorna were doubles, and Mick’s was as close as a man’s could be.

“Breathe, Mairead,” Lorna said, with a faint grin. “They’ll not eat you.”

“I dunno,” Siobhan said, “I kind’v want her hair.”

“ _Hush_ , you. You’re not helping.”

“Did she ever?” Mick asked, snickering.

“More than you ever did, you spoon,” Siobhan retorted, thumping him on the arm.

“Spoon?” Thranduil questioned.

“Means you’re so stupid you can’t be trusted with sharp objects,” Lorna said. “Mairead, where are my kids?”

“And where’s the booze?” Orla added.

Mairead covered her eyes in silent pain.

Lorna cackled.

\--

Several thousand miles away from Ireland, Jennifer Anderson woke to find her room on fire.

It was the piercing screech of the smoke alarm that roused her, dragging her out of the stupor she’d fallen into after her twelve-hour shift. She coughed on the smoke, staggering to the kitchen for the fire extinguisher and tripping over her discarded shoes.

Unfortunately for her, when she touched the counter, it too burst into flames, and she recoiled with a shriek every bit as loud as the alarm.

She stumbled to the front door, wrenching it open, and her fat tabby cat shot out into the pale dawn. The door itself began to smolder, and Jennifer, heart in her throat, lurched into the center of the street, away from anything flammable.

 _What a shitty way to start the day_ , she thought inanely, and passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think that’s bad, just wait until the fourth Donovan shows up. Elladan and Elrohir have been learning English in the background. This will end well for approximately nobody. Unfortunately, Lorna is not actually anywhere near recovered from her ordeal, and that’s going to come out whether she likes it or not.
> 
> Also, you know how I said we weren't done with Von Ratched? We're not. Mandos might have given Sharley Fëanor in his place, but Mandos isn't the only one with some authority over where dead humans go. He's still not going to show up for a long while yet, but show up he will, in some form.
> 
> Chapter means “Learning” in Irish. As ever, your reviews make me do a little jig that makes my cat look at me like I’m insane.


	50. Fírinne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Fëanor continues to irritate, unsettle, and amuse Sharley (and is unsettled in return), Shane meets Elladan (and realizes right out of the gate that they’re going to get along famously), and Lorna finally tells Thranduil just what else happened at the Institute.

Sharley wasn’t surprised when Fëanor, through broken English and pantomime, told her he wanted to learn to drive. _He_ seemed so surprised when she agreed that she suspected he’d thought she’d refuse, but what the hell did she have to lose? It wasn’t like she could die if he wrapped the car around a light-pole, and Elves were tough enough that he probably wouldn’t, either. He might wind up with a few broken bones, but at least it would keep him distracted.

Trying to teach someone to drive when they didn’t speak enough English wasn’t easy, but he was a bright spark, and took her meaning well enough. What he _did_ seem to find easy was shifting, and especially not starting from a dead stop. The poor car wasn’t going to have a clutch left by the time he was through with it. Someday, when he spoke proper English, she’d find an old pickup and teach him the art of double-clutching. Provided he ever learned to shift in the first place.

“You have to feel for it,” she said, not caring that he couldn’t understand her words. He was unnervingly good at understanding her tone.

 _“Kinky,”_ Jimmy snickered.

 _“Oh, shut up,”_ Sinsemilla said, and sighed. Sharley had long wondered how something without physical form could sigh, but Sinsemilla certainly did it a lot.

 _“What? It is,”_ he retorted.

“Jimmy, you don’t have a _body_ ,” Sharley pointed out. “How do you know what ‘kinky’ even means?”

She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer. The voices never had told her what they were, or what they’d done before she got saddled with them. Over the years she’d managed to glean that they were older than she was, but that was about it – and she only knew _that_ because Layla slipped up and told her. How much older they were, she didn’t know, but she suspected it was quite a bit.

Fëanor tried again, and failed again, and all but snarled at the gearshift. He was so unlike Thranduil, and Elrond’s family. They seemed to be practically the embodiment of ‘still waters run deep’, but Fëanor, when he wasn’t distracted by something shiny, was downright volatile. It was almost human.

She sat patiently, letting him fumble, until eventually the car lurched forward. He managed to keep it going, and shifted to second when the engine started to rev too high. A look of almost vicious satisfaction crossed his face, and it was all she could do not to laugh. The car jerked and shuddered, tires screeching on the asphalt, but he got the thing out on the road, fishtailing a bit before straightening out.

 _“You realize Martin’s gonna hit the ceiling if we wreck this thing, right?”_ Kurt asked.

“I’ll find him a new one,” she said, watching the road. Fëanor still hadn’t quite got the hang of steering, but he was figuring out small corrections, glaring at the road as though it had personally offended him. He was the sort of being who would be exhausting to be around, but fortunately, Sharley wasn’t capable of exhaustion. She was also incapable of smell, unless she really tried, which in this car she suspected was a good thing.

He stomped on the gas, and Sharley winced when he shifted from second to fourth, sending the car shuddering again. At least he’d be able to figure out how to fix it again, if he broke it. She’d expected him to be fascinated by human technology, but she hadn’t expected him to take to it so fast and so easily. Soon enough, cars would be nothing special to him, and she’d have to find him a new distraction.

She was not, however, going to take him on a ship. _Ever_.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing at an oncoming semi in the opposite lane. Of all the English phrases he’d learned, that was the one he used the most, and consequently the easiest to understand. His accent was as heavy as it was unidentifiable.

“Semi truck,” she said, watching him twitch a little as it blasted by them. Maybe she’d get someone to take him up in a sea plane, if anyone was willing to do it. That would probably take a while.

\--

Lorna had been doing so well lately that her… _episode_ …took her entirely by surprise.

The gang and her siblings were having a little too much fun with the twins in what had once been a training hall when sudden, icy panic gripped her, squeezing her heart like an iron fist. Sweat broke out along her forehead, the back of her neck, and it was all she could do not to stagger as she made for the doorway, right hand pressed against the wound on her chest. It flared anew, a phantom of the agony she’d felt when the pole jammed through her chest, and she leaned against the corridor wall, trying not to choke on her own breath. She could smell the ghost of the Institute, floor polish and sinus-tingling disinfectant, and she swallowed, hard.

What the hell had brought _this_ on? Her heart was pounding, adrenalin surging through her veins. The cool, mossy scent of the walls couldn’t banish the lingering remembrance of disinfectant, no matter how deeply she tried to breathe.

She didn’t register Thranduil’s presence until he touched her shoulder, making her jump. _What is wrong?_ he sent her.

 _I don’t fucking know. I was fine, and now I’m not_. Churning anger joined her panic, hot and welcome. Her family was here. Her friends were here. She didn’t have time for this bullshit, but it wasn’t letting her force it away, and if it was anyone but Thranduil before her, she’d hide until it passed.

He didn’t say anything – just pulled her close and rubbed her back, letting her work through it in her own time. Lorna breathed in the rich scent of him, spice and something a touch like sandalwood, willing her heart to slow. She couldn’t – she wouldn’t – think of this right now. It could fuck off until she, Thranduil, and a bottle of wine had time for it.

“I’m okay,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “I’m okay.”

“No, you are not,” he said, his breath warm against her hair. “You need wine.”

“Thranduil, it’s one in the afternoon,” she pointed out, not mentioning that at one point in her life, that would hardly have stopped her.

“I will never understand you Edain, and your insistence that alcohol not be drunk at any time,” Thranduil said, carding his fingers through her hair. “If you require a drink, you require a drink. There is no shame in it.”

“Thranduil, I don’t want to be a bloody alcoholic,” she said, leaning back enough to look up at him. “And I’ll sure as hell not become one over this. I’ll be _fine_.”

He looked as though he very much wanted to say something – his pale, piercing eyes searched hers, the flecks of silver glinting like mica. “Firieth Dithen, I know what you do with things that anger or distress you,” he said, running his thumb over her right cheekbone. “You lock them away and bury them. They will fester, should you leave them there.”

“It’s not like I know what else to do with them,’ she said, with a harshness that surprised even her. “Sorry. Look, it’ll pass. It always does.” Honestly, she didn’t think he could give her much help in that department anyway, since he seemed to do much the same thing himself.

“Are you ever going to be able to tell me what happened in that place?” Thranduil asked.

Lorna shut her eyes. “Someday. Someday I will, but I can’t yet. I still don’t have words.” She didn’t want to even think about it right now. She wasn’t going to let Von Ratched taint her life from behind the grave.

“Your nightmares have stopped,” Thranduil observed.

“I had it out with them,” she said, with a smile that bordered on savage. “I’ll be fine, I promise.” She tried to will him to believe her, because she wanted to believe it herself, and she wasn’t sure she could do it if he didn’t. Lorna hated having to rely on people, but Thranduil wasn’t people, he was Thranduil. Relying on _him_ was just fine. She believed, by now, that he wasn’t going to judge her, no matter what. “If any’v them come back, I’ll be ready.”

His eyes searched hers, but he seemed to believe her. “Then let us take the twins,” he said. “Your brother and sister have yet to meet your grandmother.”

“Oh, _God_.”

\--

Shane had occasionally wondered what had happened to Lorna in the last ten years. He’d managed to keep tabs on most of the others once they reached adulthood, but Lorna seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth after she got out of prison. He’d feared her dead, but even if he’d known she was alive, he wouldn’t have expected _this_. Then again, who would have? Mental, it was. She’d gone and married some alien, had two cute (if disturbing) children, and moved her entire bloody village underground.

Much as he hadn’t wanted to leave his shop, he couldn’t say he’d been sorry to follow her. He wasn’t nearly stupid enough to think this was over, or that it wasn’t capable of going utterly to hell again. And if it did that, Dublin would be the last place in Ireland he’d want to be. The storm was bad enough.

Still, this was too bloody weird. Shane had never had a great deal of imagination – the life he’d led hadn’t exactly been conducive to it – so this was all a bit much. Magic and Elves simply didn’t fit into life as he had always known it, or ever expected to know it, or certainly ever _wanted_ to know it.

Still, it was what it was, and he hadn’t survived this long without being adaptable. This whole thing was bizarre as hell, but he’d roll with it. He always had.

Meanwhile, he was being vastly entertained by just what reaction the three Donovans were getting out of, well, _everyone_. There was always an initial expression of faint horror, and it was all he could do to keep a straight face.

“You are new.”

Fortunately, Shane had long ago mastered the impulse to punch anyone who startled him. The man now beside him had appeared as silently as a ghost – but then, one look at him told Shane ‘man’ was the wrong word. This had to be another Elf – every bit as tall as him, pale as Lorna’s husband, but his long hair was nearly black, his eyes grey rather than blue. His words were weirdly choppy, his accent both thick and very, very heavy. Thranduil seemed to be fluent in English, but Shane doubted this one was.

“So are you, huh?” he asked, speaking slowly.

He was at first met with blank incomprehension, but the Elf’s expression cleared a moment later. “Yes. Your language is strange. Hard.”

Shane wondered what the bloke would make of Irish. “You been outside much?” Somehow, he couldn’t imagine this one in the middle of Dublin. It had been obvious that Thranduil found the city strange, but he at least seemed to recognize the things around him, and could sort of blend. He stood out a bit, but not like a complete alien.

“Some,” the Elf said. “We bury the bodies.”

Bury the – all right, Lorna had some explaining to do. 

“Very strange,” he added. “Your world. Many things.” There was an almost unholy curiosity in his eyes, and Shane decided that he was going to learn how to ride a motorcycle at the first opportunity. Maybe he’d take to it better than Thranduil, who had looked, in a subtle way, about as happy as a cat in a rainstorm.

“Who’s ‘we’?” he asked.

“My brother and I,” the Elf said. “You meet him. You all meet him. After her.” He nodded at a tiny old woman, his expression amused and a very little unsettled. Currently, she was eying all the Donovan siblings in a way that managed to be both critical and possessive.

“Jesus, you eejits look alike,” she said. “Is the fourth like you lot?”

“He was when I saw him last,” Siobhan said. “Bit taller than Mick here.”

“That’s not saying much,” the old lady said. “Have any’v you got children?”

“Not that I know’v,” Mick said cheerfully.

“I think Pat’s got a daughter somewhere,” Siobhan said, with a sigh. “Not that he’s probably seen her in ages. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

The old woman shook her head. “I should’ve taken the lot’v you, after your mam died,” she said. “I would’ve done, if I could _find_ you. You all ran away, didn’t you?”

Siobhan shrugged. “At different times, but yeah. Lorna, she took off first. I left Dublin, and I don’t know where Pat went.”

“Juvie,” Mick said, picking at a thread on his leather jacket. “We should’ve all met up somewhere, but Social Services nabbed Lorna and I after the first time we ran away, when Mam died. I wonder whatever happened to Da.”

Lorna looked at Lord Thranduil, and some unheard communication passed between them. “He’s nobody’s problem anymore,” she said, “and that’s all I’ll say on it.”

Something in Shane went cold. He never had known _why_ Lorna went to prison, but he knew her, and her temper. He’d always worried she’d kill someone someday while in the grip of it, and she’d all but confirmed his fears.

He’d failed them, his gang. Most were in prison, or dead, or just missing, lost in the morass of Dublin. Orla was the only one who’d stayed more or less out of trouble, but even she’d been arrested for assault a few times. Maybe people like them just couldn’t get through life without making a mess of it.

Now…well, they were safe, but Shane wasn’t entirely sure about this Thranduil. Lorna, when he’d known her, had been a bloody awful judge of character, and the way the Elf looked at her was downright creepy at times. He seemed like a benevolent sort, more or less, and he certainly seemed to have a sense of humor, but did Lorna _know_ how he looked at her? Did any of these people see how creepy it was?

None of the others he’d come with seemed to – but then, the Donovans’ grandmother was pretty damn distracting. Maybe he’d talk to _her_ later, and find out just what the deal was between Lorna and her disturbing husband.

\--

Dinner that night was…interesting.

Bridie didn’t think she’d ever forgive herself for not pursuing those four grandchildren, but honestly, she hadn’t even known her daughter had died until a month after the fact. Why Saoirse had stuck with that bastard husband of hers, Bridie didn’t know, but stick she had, and been estranged from her parents before her elder son had been born.

These three…Mick seemed to be genuinely carefree, cheerful and every bit as vulgar as Lorna. Siobhan, on the other hand, had too much experience in her eyes for one so relatively young – like Lorna, there was an edge to her, but hers was sharper and harder. She had, as Lorna might put it, seen some shite.

The lot of them hadn’t seen one another in sixteen years, but they slipped into banter so easily they might as well have never been apart. Fortunately, Lord Thranduil seemed to be amused by them, in his understated way – even yet he could be a damn difficult bastard to read, but once you understood the nuances of his eyebrows, it was easier. Some of his amusement had to be derived from Mairead’s pained reactions, but not all of it.

Lorna had, by now, developed something approximating table manners. Siobhan seemed to have some, too, but Mick had none at all, and Bridie could see Mairead biting the inside of her cheek with the effort of not giving out at him. Her four children were watching him and Siobhan, wide-eyed, and Bridie already knew _that_ wasn’t going to end well.

Yes, their strange little kingdom was growing even stranger. Soon enough they’d be able to plant some crops, so they could actually try to feed themselves without total outside aid. Lasgaelen would absorb these newcomers, and any others who might be dragged in when the expatriates returned.

Would it, Bridie wondered, be possible to do this to all of Ireland? Could the influence of Lasgaelen spread? It was true no one in the village could be called ambitious, but maybe that was a good thing. Ambition had created treatments for cancer, but it had also created Hitler.

Maybe. Maybe if they were lucky, they could do this.

\--

The day’s riding had left Lorna more tired than she would have thought, and she fell asleep almost immediately, heedless of the bedside lamp Thranduil had left on to read by.

_Her dreams were vague, unfocused and unpleasant – the Institute, yet again. She’d had no more proper nightmares, but occasionally her sleeping mind passed through the empty, darkened halls on its way elsewhere. By now she as used to the cod, the bitter tang of disinfectant. It held no more terror for her._

_She could feel herself passing out of the dream as easily as she had entered it, but something tugged at her, faint but insistent._

_Lorna faltered, her dream-self tripping over her own feet. This was new, and unidentifiable, and she liked neither thing at all. Surely she’d feel Von Ratched’s phantom if it was here, right? She hadn’t seen him since the night she went off on him—_

_A hand, fever-hot, slapped onto her forehead, its owner having crept up on her as silently as Thranduil. For a split second, revulsion bloomed in her chest, but it was followed by something else entirely._

_Her reaction was instantaneous, instinctive – she drove her elbow backward, right into Von Ratched’s ribcage. It didn’t dislodge his hand, unfortunately; the sensation only grew worse, even when she tore herself away, staggering forward and rounding on him._

_Or what_ should _have been him. There was no one there – no one visible, anyway. The phantom touch brushed her forehead again, and again she recoiled, but there was no escaping it. And she felt – oh, she_ felt, _every bit as intensely as she had when she’d been in the real Institute._

_She didn’t bother demanding that he – or it – stop, because she was too busy grabbing walls and doors with her telekinesis to summon words. She’d beaten this once, and she’d do it again, even if she had to pull this entire goddamn dream-Institute down upon herself._

_But her anger, her anger wasn’t enough to drown this out, not at all—_

Lorna woke with a snarl still trapped in her throat, striking out blindly at the hand that touched her shoulder.

“Lorna. _Lorna_.”

Thranduil’s voice grounded her, dragging her fully awake, but it didn’t erase the terrible dissonance of rage and forced desire.

“God _dammit_ ,” she growled, clawing at the tangle of her hair that had wound itself around her. She was only dimly aware of something creaking, of the cracking of wood and groan of stressed metal – not until the bedframe broke apart, dropping the mattress with a _thud_ and flipping the canopy crashing onto the floor.

“ _Lorna_.”

She slapped at the hands that touched her, but they were Thranduil’s hands – she didn’t need to fear them. Rage and that horrible, artificial desire still churned through her, and it was all she could do not to scratch her own skin off.

It was not, she supposed, surprising that he picked up on it. Even when they weren’t in each other’s heads, they were attuned to one another, and this terrible cocktail was much too strong. He probably would have been aware of it even if neither of them had been telepaths.

“Shut up,” she said – the words half order, half plea. “Not now. Not yet.” She pressed her forehead into the crook of his neck, shuddering, using the warmth and scent of him as an anchor. She was home, and awake, and goddammit, that place and that _feeling_ were nothing but a nightmare. It was Thranduil beside her, solid and alive and, for the moment at least, patient.

“Shite happened,” she said at last, her voice muffled. “There, it happened to my mind. _In_ my mind. Just…shite.” Lorna was never what one might call eloquent at the best of times; now, it was all she could do to summon any words at all.

Thranduil said nothing, but he wrapped his arms around her, rubbing her back through the thin material of the oversized T-shirt she used as a nightdress.

“He knew I could handle pain,” she went on at last, as steadily as she could, “and I think he wasn’t stupid enough to try anything physical, but he…did things to my mind, right up until I jammed that pole through his shoulder. I couldn’t stop him, I couldn’t keep him out, and he just—” 

Her words trailed off into a formless, useless snarl. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to feel those things again without remembering… _that_. He’s poisoned it. All’v it, and he didn’t even have to bloody touch me.” It was hardly fucking fair to Thranduil, but that feeling, that forced _need_ – how could she ever move past it?

“Lorna, look at me.” Thranduil’s voice was gentle, a request rather than a demand, and it was that which made her raise her head. There was, thankfully, no pity in his pale eyes, no anger on her behalf. “I did not marry you to get you into my bed – I had no expectation that you would ever allow it of me again. If you can allow it no longer, I will hardly die. I do not wish to give you any cause for anger, or fear.”

“He _took_ that from me,” she said, the words little more than a hoarse, harsh whisper, and she wished, so very much, that she could cry. Lorna had never understood the people who thought tears were a weakness – they were an outlet for pain that couldn’t otherwise be eased, and she was all but incapable of them.

“Perhaps, one day, you will take it back,” Thranduil said, still running his hand along her spine with soothing gentleness. “But if you do not, I will not love you any less.” He paused. “We do, however, have to fix this bed, and I suggest we tell your sister, but do not mention how we broke it. Watching her face come to match her hair is more entertaining than it should be.”

In spite of everything, Lorna smiled a little. “I’ve been a bad influence on you,” she said.

“That you have,” he said dryly. “But I would not trade it for anything.”

“Let’s see if you’re still saying that when we bring everyone home from the world outside,” she said, snuggling closer to him. _This_ she craved, this closeness. “You might hate everyone and everything then.”

“I have you and your siblings to throw at them,” he said, running his fingers through her hair. “The three of you would give anyone pause. I can only imagine the fourth is just as bad.”

“He was,” Lorna said, breathing in the spicy-rich-Thranduil scent that surrounded her like a cocoon. “Don’t know what he’s like now. I’d be careful around Mick, if I was you – I don’t know if he’s bisexual or if it’s just you, but I’m not so sure he was joking about having it off with you. You might get hit on.”

“I do not know what that means, but I can guess,” Thranduil said. “I believe I will live. Sleep, Dilthen Ettelëa. I know you are tired. I will be here when you wake.”

“As long as the rest’v this bed doesn’t collapse,” Lorna said, but sleep was already dragging her down again.

\--

Mechanical aptitude, Sharley could sort of understand. She had not, however, expected Fëanor to chase Andy out of the diner’s kitchen and take it over.

He was muttering to himself as he inspected the stove, partly in English, complaining about his substandard ingredients. The gas range seemed to distract him, but not for long.

“Can he cook?” Sammie asked, watching him from the front counter.

“Probably.” From what Sharley had seen of Elf history in the Halls of Mandos, male Noldor had done most of the cooking, but she’d not seen _him_ do it in any of his past Time. “This is depressing. _I_ had a harder time adjusting to modern Earth, and I was born here.”

“When?” Sammie asked, turning curious eyes to her.

“I don’t remember the day, but it was 1926. July, I think.” She’d celebrated birthdays with her mother, in their small way, but it was so long ago now.

“That’s fucking criminal. You be here on the Fourth of July, Sea Lady, and we’ll give you a birthday party no one will forget.”

“I don’t wonder why you never forgot _me_ , with that thing on your wall.” Sharley had known Sammie took her picture, as she walked out of the waves, but hadn’t given much thought as to what the girl might have done with it. She certainly wouldn’t have expected to find it framed on the diner wall, but there it was. It was an unsettling photo, because of the sheer dissonance between the golden-dawn sparkling off the waves and, well, _her_. She had a hard time passing for a living person at the best of times, but in that picture, striding out of the waves in jeans and a ratty tank-top, she’d never looked more like a zombie. It was a wonder Sammie hadn’t run away screaming.

But she hadn’t. None of them had, the children of Kirk, and it was why Sharley had brought Fëanor here. She’d suspected they’d be able to handle him, at least for a while, and so far she was right.

Still, there was something really weird about watching him cook. Yeah, she was projecting Earth stereotypes on him, and she really shouldn’t, but she’d been born on Earth. Some habits died hard.

“Someday, you need to tell us about yourself, Sea Lady,” Sammie said. “About when you were alive. Come back, if you can, once you’ve dumped him somewhere.”

“I will,” Sharley promised. “He won’t need me to babysit him forever.” He could be Thranduil and Elrond’s problem then. However, if things went to shit as badly as they would in three out of five timelines, the people of Kirk would be Thranduil’s problem, too, because she wasn’t going to hang them out to dry.

She wasn’t going to tell Sammie that, however. If the other two timelines happened, neither she nor anyone else in Kirk needed to know how much of a bullet they’d dodged.

Fëanor looked up, and gave a rather imperious wave to summon her into the kitchen. She went with deep reservation – mechanics she could deal with, but she’d been dead for forty years. What the hell did she know about cooking? It wasn’t like she needed to eat.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she said, shaking her head and pointing at the stove. If she mixed crude sign language with her English, he usually got the gist of it.

He looked down at her, obviously unimpressed. “Why?” he asked, with a level of imperiousness that really shouldn’t be expressible in a single word.

“I’m _dead_ , dipshit,” she said, running her fingers along the scars on her neck. “I don’t need food.”

To her utter astonishment, something that might have been contrition passed through his expression, so swiftly she couldn’t be sure it had actually been there. “Ávatyara ne,” he said, turning away. “Watch. Help.”

If it kept him quiet, she could do it. It was rather unfair, just how easily he took to this modern kitchen, though he wrinkled his nose at the smell of grease from the deep-fryer. Something had been left in it, something that by now was a blackened husk, and without thinking, she stuck her hand into the oil to fish it out.

Sammie let out a shriek, but even Fëanor looked utterly horrified as she pulled out what was left of something that she was pretty sure had once been a chicken leg. The oil dripped down her bare arm, sizzling when it hit the floor, and Sharley winced. Right. Jesus, she’d been away from the living for way too long. “How about we pretend that didn’t happen?” she asked, dropping the leg in the trash and sticking her arm under the tap in the giant sink. “Come on, Sammie, you watched me hack up a swimming pool’s worth of water when you first met me. This can’t be _that_ weird.”

“Uh, yes it can,” the woman said, her complexion outright green. “It can, and it is.”

Fëanor grabbed a dish cloth, and used it to grab Sharley’s arm, rather than touch her directly – smart Elf. He eyed the unburned, unbroken skin with a fascination a touch too much like Von Ratched’s for comfort.

“Hey,” she said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. Bracing herself, she grabbed his free hand and slapped his fingers right over where her pulse should have been, if she’d had one. She knew how cold her skin was, how _wrong_ the living found it, but he’d see more than that. “Dead,” she said. “Qualin. Gyrth i Chuinar.” The second, at least according to Mandos, meant ‘dead who lives’ in Sindarin. She might use it for an alias, if she ever needed one.

Fëanor recoiled, but he seemed to have got her point. Still, though he eyed her with distaste, there was too much curiosity in his sharp eyes. Somehow, she had a feeling this wasn’t going to end well. For anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wait until Shane, Mick, and Orla drag Elladan and Elrohir topside. It will be epic, and poor Elrond will regret bringing them.
> 
> Poor Lorna – she’s not going to completely get over what was done to her in a hurry, but she’s got Thranduil to help her, now that he knows what happened.
> 
> “Ávatyara ne” means “forgive me” in Quenya (I know, right; Fëanor will only apologize if nobody can understand him). Sharley gives him the creeps, but he kind of can’t help but feel vaguely sorry for her, given that she’s a walking abomination.
> 
> Title means “Truth” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with warmth and light and fuzzy goodness.


	51. Cúrsa Tuairt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Elladan and Elrohir learn to drive (which ends about as well as you’d expect), Lorna, Shane, and Siobhan decide to build a Thunderdome in the Market’s parking lot, and Fëanor tests the limits of Sharley’s patience and indestructibility.

Lorna woke the next morning surprisingly calm. She would have thought she’d be terribly ashamed, after a confession like that, but she wasn’t at all.

Thranduil was pressed against her back, arm slug around her waist and chin rested atop her head. She knew him well enough to be sure he was going to go into belated over-protective mode for a while, but she could let him, for now. He seemed calmer when she was near anyway, and she really wanted to know why. Something was up with him, something so subtle she doubted anyone else would notice, and she needed to ferret out what.

Much as Lorna would love to stay like this, she really did need to pee, and to check on the twins. They had their own room now, sort of – their cots had been moved to the equivalent of the lounge, where they could be easily monitored.

She tried to squirm out of Thranduil’s grasp, but he wasn’t having any of it. His grip tightened around her middle, which only made the pressure on her bladder more insistent.

“Thranduil, allanah, I need a wee,” she said, poking his side. “I’ll come back, but let me up.”

He grumbled, but did as she asked, and she hurried across the stone floor, cold beneath her bare feet. The only thing she really missed about Mairead’s house was central heating. Cold floors and colder toilet seats were not at all fun.

It was odd, just how _free_ she felt after that dreadful confession. She’d been so ashamed of it, so terrified of anyone finding out, and she still sure as hell didn’t want anyone else knowing, but with Thranduil, it was as though she a weight she hadn’t realized she carried had been lifted.

Even that, however, was not enough to mitigate the frigid toilet seat. _Nothing_ could have managed that.

She tiptoed out to the lounge to check on the twins, who were both still sound asleep, and poked up the fire in both rooms before crawling back into the warmth of her bed.

“We need to find some way’v piping natural gas in here,” she said, burrowing under the blankets.

“I will ask the electropaths, when they are free,” Thranduil said, pulling her close. He was certainly an effective space heater himself. “Having seen modern amenities, I would not be averse to some of them.” He ran his fingers through her tangled hair. “It does not trouble you when I touch you, does it?”

“No,” she assured him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. “There’s only two men I associate this with, and that fucker isn’t one’v them. Trust me, if you’d done anything that bothered me, you’d know it by now.”

“Tell me, if I do. I have no wish to cause you distress, even unwittingly.”

“I knew I loved you for a reason,” she said, with a faint smile. “I want to – eventually, someday, I want to get…that…back.”

“I do not want you to try until you are ready,” he said, running his hand up and down her spine. “Otherwise, it may well make this worse.”

He had a point. Well, she was still young-ish; she’d be thirty in June. God knew she had plenty of time to get over it.

\--

There was, Shane was sure, no way of sneaking their motorcycles back out of the forest without actually riding them, but that wasn’t really a big deal. These Elves needed to drive before they could handle a motorcycle, and, given their somewhat limited grasp of English, that might prove interesting enough on its own.

Orla had been intensely hung over, and probably would have stayed that way if not for the twins’ father, who gave her something to drink that cleared it right up. She, Mick, and Siobhan joined this little excursion, as well as Lorna and her creepy husband, each carrying a baby. Lorna’s other sister, Mairead, took up the rear, looking harassed.

It was a brilliant spring morning, the sky vivid blue between the tree branches, which had a few buds and even tiny leaves trying to grow. The sudden shift in the weather had to confuse the hell out of them, but they were pretty either way. Shane had never actually been to a real forest, but he doubted there were many – or hell, _any_ – like this one.

Behind him, Lorna said, “They’ll be fine. Shane taught me to drive.”

“Firieth Dithen, that is not precisely a ringing endorsement,” Thranduil said. “I have seen your sister drive, and she says you are worse, even when you are not fleeing through a snowstorm.”

“‘Worse’ is a relative term. I’d like to think I’m just more creative.”

Orla snorted. “This from the woman who drove a bus off a bridge,” she said, and cursed as she tripped over a root.

“That was _one time_ ,” Lorna said, and Shane could practically _feel_ her rolling her eyes. “You say that like I made a bloody hobby’v it.”

“Why have I never heard this story?” Mairead demanded.

“Because I knew how you’d react,” Lorna retorted. “We’d best hope some’v those government goons left their keys in their cars. It won’t matter so much if those two scrape the paint off.”

Shane really, really wanted to ask just what the hell had happened there, but now was not the time. The walk to the edge of the forest was a long one, and he didn’t want to admit just how winded he was. It was bloody disgraceful, but if he had to make this trek on a regular basis, he wouldn’t be out-of-shape for long.

The empty village was as eerie as it had been yesterday, even in the bright sunshine. It had the feeling of something utterly abandoned, and that had _been_ abandoned for years. When he’d been in prison, he’d seen a documentary about Pripyat, the city that sat near Chernobyl before it melted down. Lasgaelen had the spooky feeling he’d got when seeing the shots of the abandoned city, like it had been frozen in time.

A glance at Mick and Orla told him he wasn’t the only one, but Siobhan seemed unaffected, as did all the Elves.

He found one of the black SUV’s still had the key in the ignition, so he waved the twins over to look. They were so identical that he’d made Elladan tie a red bandanna around his wrist, since their clothes matched so well that it really was impossible to tell them apart.

“Alright, sit,” he said. “That’s the key. Turn it.”

Both twins looked quite startled when the engine rumbled to life, and Elrohir moved in to see what his brother was doing.

“Here’s your shifter – that, right there. Move it over until you hit that orange letter.” Shane didn’t know how well they might or might not read the alphabet and thought it best not to test it yet. “All right, put your foot on that pedal—”

He got no further, for Elladan, rather over-enthusiastic, stomped on the gas. The SUV lurched forward, tires squealing on the asphalt. It managed to make it about thirty feet before he crashed head-on into a parked minivan, caving in the entire left side. The crunch of the van’s door echoed loud in the empty village, the crack and shatter of glass mingled with it.

Lorna burst out laughing, but someone – likely Mairead – groaned.

“Oh, well _done_ , mate,” Mick snickered, while Elladan, white-faced, hurried out of the car. He looked so stricken that Shane dissolved into laughter as well.

“Don’t feel bad,” Orla said. “It’s no worse than what I did my first time out’v the gate.”

“Didn’t you drive right through the front’v a shop?” Lorna asked, setting Shane down on the grass.

“She did,” Shane said. “We had to leg it in a hurry.”

Orla snorted. “At least I never drove off a bridge.”

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” Lorna sighed, sitting beside her son.

“Nope. Why don’t we have these two watch someone else drive first?” Orla suggested. “Someone who isn’t Lorna.”

“Or Mairead,” Thranduil said dryly, eying her. “My first time in a car was riding passenger with her. I decided immediately that I disliked them immensely.”

Mairead made a wordless sound of protest, but Lorna only laughed harder. “Can’t’ve been worse than me driving an ambulance through a snowstorm,” she said. “Oi, Shane, this one’s got keys. Thranduil, you really ought to learn to drive, too. It’s a useful skill.”

His rather disdainful expression suggested exactly what he thought about _that_ idea. It was strange, Shane thought, just how very unnatural he looked. Elladan and Elrohir could never have been mistaken for human, but they weren’t _creepy_ like Thranduil. Even holding an incredibly cute baby wasn’t enough to undo the impression.

Siobhan seemed aware of it, but she was the only one. Mairead had to be used to him by now, and Lorna was _married_ to him, but Mick seemed oblivious, too.

“Shane, I’ll take one if you take the other,” Mick said. “There’s loads to choose from.”

Yes, there were. It was no small group of goons that had been sent to Lasgaelen, and Shane wondered how long it would take the government to try again. 

He was pulled out of his thoughts by another crunch, followed by what could only be a stream of Elvish cursing. Evidently, Elrohir had been tired of waiting, but just like his brother, he had no concept of gentle acceleration. It was a good thing they had so many cars, because Shane had a feeling they’d wreck them all by the time they were through.

\--

Clearly, Elladan and Elrohir had no proper concept of just what a car could do. Lorna decided to rectify this by taking them out and doing donuts in the Market’s car park.

The tires squealed on the pavement, the scent of burned rubber creeping in through the open windows, and the pair of them looked torn between elation and utter terror, gripping whatever they could hang onto in an attempt to avoid getting thrown around the car.

The SUV was so big that she had a hard time seeing over the steering wheel, which only made things more interesting. She crashed into several curbs and scraped the passenger-side mirror off on a lamp post, wincing at the screech of metal on metal.

Another SUV came skidding into the car park, Mick at the wheel, grinning like a loon. He cut across in front of Lorna, but she was getting a feel for the car now, and swerved rather than slam her brakes.

“Are you two watching this?” she asked, glancing at Elladan. “The pair’v you’ll be taking over next, so mind the bloody gas pedal. You don’t stomp on it unless you’re on a straight road with nothing in the way.”

She tore out of the car park, zooming down Main Street, and took such a hard left she feared she’d roll the SUV. “All right, Elladan, you first. I think I’ll walk back, since I’m more breakable.”

\--

Thranduil was fairly certain this was a terrible idea, but he was far too entertained to care.

Lorna came hurrying back up the road, but dodged into the pub doorway when an SUV came rocketing down the street, attempting a straight line and failing utterly. He could hear Elladan and Elrohir arguing, right up until the vehicle bounced off a lamp post and crashed straight through the front of the Market, raining glass everywhere.

“Take your foot off the bloody accelerator!” Lorna called, but there only came more crashing, and a final, massive _crunch_ when they presumably hit the back wall.

“Molly will slaughter them,” Thranduil observed.

Beside him, Mairead grimaced. “That she will. I don’t care that they’re thousands’v years old – she’s got a mean right hook.”

The mental image was almost too much. “I imagine the entire village would wish to watch that fight,” he said. “You Irish have always been a rather violent people.”

“I wish I could dispute that, but I can’t,” she sighed. “Is that Elrond going to be pissed if either’v those eejits gets themselves killed?”

“Eldar are more durable than that. They likely will not have a scratch on them.”

Saoirse chose that moment to grab hold of his robe, struggling to her feet. It was too early for her to be walking yet, but she seemed to want to try – she took two steps, then promptly pitched forward onto her face.

The twins rarely cried, but he suspected it was the shock that made her burst into tears. Thranduil scooped her up, wiping the dirt off her face with his sleeve. He’d just managed to quiet her when there came another, much louder crash, accompanied by a cry of, “Fekkin’ hell!”

“That’ll be Mick,” Siobhan said, rolling her eyes.

A female voice joined in, loud and booming, yelling in what sounded like Irish – he must have run into Orla, who was making her displeasure known in no uncertain terms.

“They’ll have the village in ruins by nightfall,” Lorna said, picking her way around the first wreck. “Christ knows what those government eejits’ll make’v it, if they’re stupid enough to come back.”

“They’ll think we went Mad Max,” Shane said with a snort.

“Shall we build a Thunderdome?” Thranduil asked. That trilogy had come early on in his cinematic education.

A somewhat disturbing light entered Siobhan’s dark eyes. “Why _don’t_ we? We’ve got enough space.”

“We do have to plant crops,” Mairead pointed out, surprisingly mildly.

“Market car park’s big enough,” Shane said, eying it. “Lorna always wanted to build one, back in the day.”

Thranduil looked down at her, arching an eyebrow. “Somehow, I am not surprised.”

“Hush, you. Shane, you’re a welder. Let’s do this.”

Before he could respond, the SUV shout out of the Market backwards, and crashed through the window of Big Jamie’s pub.

“Well,” Lorna said, wincing, “ _that’s_ unfortunate.”

\--

Sharley had just about had it with Fëanor. If he didn’t knock it off, she was going to knock him down, and stick her hands on his face until he screamed like a little girl.

He had apparently made it his mission to test just how indestructible she really was, because in the last eight hours she’d been scalded, stabbed, hit over the head with a tire iron, and very nearly set on fire.

The son of a bitch knew how annoyed she was, too, for all she tried to ignore it. He was enjoying himself to an extent that was downright obscene, and he stayed that way right up until she grabbed him and slammed his head against the diner wall. Sharley was normally not at all a violent person, but she was a hair’s-breadth away from breaking his neck and sending him back to Námo.

“Listen here, you little shit,” she growled, while he gave her a dazed blink. His head had hit the wall so hard it had actually left a dent. “Try one more bullshit ‘experiment’ on me and I’ll shove your own foot up your ass. While it’s on fire.”

 _“The foot, or the ass?”_ Jimmy asked.

 _“Either way, it’d be painful,”_ Layla said.

Sharley was unsurprised when the threat in her tone didn’t deter Fëanor in the slightest. She’d have to really _work_ to actually hurt him, and he seemed to realize she’d probably never actually do it. Nevertheless, he said, “Okay.”

Hearing such a modern word come out of an Elf’s mouth was downright jarring. Thranduil was fluent in English, but his speech was pretty formal – she couldn’t imagine him ever saying ‘okay’. After only three days, Fëanor was picking up the language with worrying speed, but it was modern, colloquial English, and it sounded _weird._ Thranduil, and Elrond’s family, would probably laugh like hell on the inside, and the twins might not bother keeping it on the inside.

Sharley had planned on keeping Fëanor in Kirk for a least a month, but that was before she knew just how fast he learned. He’d mastered mechanics, driving, and basic modern technology, and was absorbing English at a disturbing pace. He couldn’t read the Roman alphabet yet, and Sharley wasn’t patient enough to teach him, but she had no doubt he’d work _that_ out on his own, too. She didn’t dare keep him here long enough to let him get bored. If only she could con someone into taking him up in a plane, but so far no one was willing, and she couldn’t exactly blame them. He really was a terrifying little shit, even when he wasn’t trying.

She herself had reached the point where she could half-ass understand some of his mutterings, but she suspected they were in Quenya rather than Sindarin, which wouldn’t be any help at all.

Warily, she stepped back, not trusting him anywhere near as far as she could throw him.

He gave her a smirk, and she knew she had to get him out of here. She wasn’t going to inflict him on Kirk if he was going to be a little shit. The Elves of Lasgaelen wouldn’t thank her for dropping him on their doorstep, but at least they could help her corral him. Provided, of course, they didn’t just straight-up murder him.

Sharley’s eyes narrowed, and she was gratified to see his smirk fade a bit. He might not fear her – she doubted Fëanor feared _anything_ – but he wasn’t stupid, and he certainly wouldn’t want her sticking her hands on his face.

\--

The driving lessons only stopped when Elladan and Elrohir had wrecked most of the cars and a healthy portion of Main Street. Lorna had just about laughed herself sick when Elrohir slammed into Mick’s SUV, and earned himself a litany of Irish cursing shouted at the top of Mick’s lungs. The poor Elf looked so disturbed that she had to come to his rescue.

“He’s just giving out at you,” she said. “You don’t need to worry what an Irish person’ll do until they _stop_ yelling.” As if Mick could do a damn thing to him anyway, but still. If her brother was anything like her, he bit. Hard.

“From what I have seen, arguing is a pastime,” Thranduil put in, prying his hair out of Saoirse’s tiny hand.

“That’s another thing I wish I could dispute it, but can’t,” Mairead said with a sigh. “Leave those eejits – you’d best feed those children before they start eating your hair.”

Lorna, not being completely thick, had in fact brought baby food in their lunch knapsack. She unpacked it onto the grass while someone else – probably Elladan – tried doing donuts in the middle of the street. All he succeeded in doing was slamming into a lamp post and crumpling both passenger doors.

“Aren’t you people meant to be all stately and dignified?” Mairead asked.

“Yes,” Thranduil said flatly. “Those two have never been, however. I had thought a few thousand years in Aman would cure that, but evidently not.” The sentence was punctuated by a squeal of tires, and a torrent of jovial Irish profanity from Mick.

“Well, they’ll not learn it _here_ ,” Lorna said, grabbing little Shane before he could crawl away. “Especially if they hang about with Mick and Shane.” Honestly, three stately Elves were enough – though Elrond’s wife, Celebrían, could seem almost human when she was around children, and it wasn’t like Thranduil didn’t have a sense of humor. Lorna hadn’t been around Elrond long enough to know if he did or not.

Still, it was a bit hilarious to watch these two ancient beings treat the village like some kind of monstrous go-kart track. The caverns really needed to get WiFi, because she couldn’t wait to show them cat videos.

“Sooner or later, something’s gonna blow up.”

Lorna choked on her own spit, whirling around. “God _dammit_ , Sharley! Wear a bell!”

The Sharley in question stood some twenty feet off, accompanied by a very tall, very surly-looking Elf.

Beside Lorna, Thranduil stiffened. “ _Fëanor_ ,” he said, the word nearly a snarl as he deposited Saoirse into her arms and moving in front of her with a few precise, tense steps.

“Fëanor?” she asked, stepping up beside him. “Light bulb guy?”

Sharley must have heard that, for she snorted. “That’s one term for him. Before you have a coronary, Thranduil, I’m basically his parole officer. He knows what’ll happen to him if he does something stupid.”

This didn’t seem to comfort Thranduil in the slightest. “Why is he _here_?” he demanded, and the ice in his tone made Lorna shudder.

“I think it’s Námo’s idea of a joke,” Sharley said, more than a little dryly. “I knew we’d need help eventually, so I went to Námo, who saddled me with him. I’m sick of dealing with him on my own, and he has to learn to play nice with people sooner or later anyway.”

Lorna watched Thranduil run his thumb over the ring on his left index finger, and winced. _Allanah, don’t. I know he’s a murderer and all, but Sharley wouldn’t have brought him here for no reason._

None of the tension left his posture, but at least he stopped with the ring. She looked up at his face, and nearly quailed at what she saw.

He’d always had something of a regal air about him, even when he was being a little shit, but _this_ …he looked like he’d been carved from stone, his eyes lit with an inner fire as hot as the flames that had burned half his face off. He was tall and still and frankly rather terrifying, the power and strength in his posture unbending as iron.

“Well,” she said, “this is awkward.”

Sharley sighed. “You have no idea. Behave,” she added, glaring at Fëanor. “Fuck this up and I’ll dump you with my father until I need you.”

Incredibly, that actually seemed to have some measure of effect on him. Who the hell was her father, that such a threat would do any good at all?

“Take him away,” Thranduil said, his voice as harsh and cold as the North Pole. “If you are what you say you are, you know what he has done.”

“I do,” she said, with another sigh, “but Námo gave him to me, because apparently the Valar have a really fucked-up sense of humor. He’s annoying, but he won’t hurt anyone.”

“And how,” Thranduil asked, eerily calm and quite deadly, “do you think you can guarantee _that_?”

“Because he knows what I am,” Sharley said flatly. “And he knows what I can do to him, if he misbehaves – and what he _can’t_ do to me.”

Lorna really didn’t need to hear that. Being surrounded by people more powerful and less squishy than she was, was not a comfortable thing. Even if she’d known how to properly use her telepathy and telekinesis, she doubted it would do much good against this lot.

Wonderful. God _damn_ , she needed a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Fëanor’s arrived. God help absolutely everyone, because of course he’s not going to get along with anybody whatsoever. Then again, he’s going to be stuck dealing with all three Donovans _and_ Bridie.
> 
> Title means ‘Crash course’ in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with happy fuzzy goodness.


	52. Teacht le chéile agus Gnéaschiapadh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m attempting to quit smoking (again), and as a result I hate absolutely everything in the entire world. I’ve done my best to keep that from affecting this chapter.
> 
> I wanted this chapter to be dramatic. I really did, but drama’s just not possible when the Donovans are involved. In which Sharley and the Donovans do their damndest to keep Thranduil from murdering Fëanor (with rather interesting results), Elrond winds up _very_ uncomfortable, and poor Fëanor starts to realize just what he’s dealing with.

Mairead, confronted with this honestly rather terrifying (and undeniably gorgeous) Elf, was at a total loss. Lord Thranduil had told them what he and his seven sons had done, and she was pretty sure the only thing keeping the icy king from straight-up murdering the other Elf was Sharley.

“Creepy son’v a bitch, isn’t he?” Siobhan said, to no one in particular. “Easy on the eyes, though.”

“ _No_ , Siobhan,” Lorna said, sounding somewhat pained.

“Why not? You bagged one.” Siobhan moved forward to stand beside her sister, giving Fëanor a very blatant once-over.

His grey eyes flicked from her to Lorna, and back again, puzzlement creeping over his expression. It only deepened when Mick, out-of-breath and red-faced, came jogging over. 

“Are we collecting Elves now?” he asked, repeating his sister’s unsubtle appraisal. “Are they like spoons?”

The Elf-man’s expression shifted to outright disbelief, and something in Mairead’s mind relaxed a bit. Let those three defuse this, if they actually could – Lord Thranduil still looked outright murderous, his face pale and eyes flashing.

“I could think’v a few things to do with that one and a spoon,” Siobhan said, smirking a little.

“…You know what, I don’t want to know,” Lorna said, grimacing a bit as she picked up her son. “I really, really don’t.”

“You’ve got to be flexible to make it work, but I bet he is.” Siobhan’s smirk was downright evil now, and wasn’t it a strange thing. In face she was Lorna’s double, but Lorna had never worn that expression.

The Elf must have understood enough English, for something very like horror entered his eyes. He looked at Sharley, who shrugged.

“Don’t ask _me_ ,” she said, picking at her nails. “I’m not into…that.”

Lorna looked up at Lord Thranduil who still seemed utterly unaffected. The sheer _hatred_ in his pale eyes made Mairead shudder – the force of it was a palpable thing, practically electrifying the air around him. There was simply no way the Donovans weren’t aware of it – if they weren’t intentionally creating a buffer, she’d be very surprised.

“He is not welcome in my halls,” Lord Thranduil said, his tone still both sharp and utterly frigid. “He will not set foot within my forest or my home.”

“Figured you’d say that,” Sharley said. “I _was_ gonna keep him in the village, but you guys have done a hell of a job here. Go get Elrond and Celebrían, and we’ll all talk out here. Don’t be pissy to Elrond,” she added, looking at Fëanor. “He’s kinda your adopted grandson.”

The surly Elf’s eyebrows rose, and Sharley sighed. This was probably going to get interesting in a hurry.

Even Lord Thranduil looked temporarily nonplussed, torn out of his fury by that statement. Mairead didn’t wonder _why_ , either; this Fëanor and Lord Elrond were as different as night and day. What on _Earth_ had Lord Elrond’s father been like, with this Elf for a da? How had Lord Elrond turned out so calm?

Silence followed that, probably because none of them knew what to say. I wasn’t broken until Elladan and Elrohir, covered in dust and bits of broken glass, approached with Shane and Orla in tow. Orla was limping a little, and Shane was already forming a rather epic bruise on his forehead.

“Who the fuck’re these two?” Orla asked, looking from Fëanor to Sharley.

“One is an undead abomination,” Lord Thranduil said, not taking his eyes off Fëanor. “The other is an irritant. An irritant whose life is a mathematical error I would dearly love to correct.”

Lorna looked up at him, shifting Shane in her arms. “Really, Thranduil? _Portal 2_? If you go GLaDOS on me, I’m going to be very annoyed.”

Fëanor opened his mouth, and Sharley kicked him, hard. “No.”

“You do not know what I say,” he said, glaring down at her.

“I didn’t need to,” she said, glaring right back. “ _Hush_. Elladan, Elrohir, this is Fëanor. Do me a giant favor and don’t try to murder him. All of us and your parents need to have a talk, so go get them.”

“Er,” Elladan said, paling. Fëanor looked from him to his brother, and his expression turned…odd. Curiosity, and a smidge of discomfort, and something Mairead couldn’t name. But then, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising – if Sharley was right, they _were_ his great-grandkids.

“Oh, joy, even more awkward,” Lorna muttered, taking Lord Thranduil’s hand with her free one. Mairead wasn’t sure what good she thought it would do – if he felt like attacking Fëanor, she could hardly stop him.

“ _Go_ ,” Sharley ordered. “We’ll get some things outta the pub, if you haven’t completely destroyed it.”

Go Elladan did, his brother not far behind.

\--

Fëanor had been entirely ready to dismiss this Thranduil and his entire, pathetic Edain kingdom. No Sindar king of dubious bloodline was worth his time, nor were any of these mayfly Edain – but there were, he found, several things Sharley had neglected to tell him.

There was simply no way Thranduil should have been anything close to a match to him in strength, but he wore a ring of a sort Fëanor had never before seen – a very, very _powerful_ ring. Who had made it, and how had Thranduil acquired it, Fëanor couldn’t guess. And then Sharley went and dropped that other stone upon his head.

Fëanor had seen none of his children in the Halls of Mandos. Either they had been kept from him, or they had avoided him, and he had given little thought as to any living descendants. To find one here – to find _three_ here – was not something he had been prepared for.

Fëanor had genuinely loved his children, but he had loved his Silmarils more, and had used his sons without shame. There was little in his life he regretted, but he did regret that. The lengths he had gone to for those jewels had been…extreme, even for him. So many had paid the price that he did not wonder why Námo hadn’t released him until now.

But having family _here_ – they would never accept him, but they were here nonetheless. They existed. And he did not know what to do with that.

And doubtless Sharley had been counting on it. She had to know by now that she had no actual control over him – not unless she murdered him – but if she kept throwing him so off-balance, she wouldn’t need to. Wretched woman.

But this King Thranduil…Fëanor wanted to say that without that ring, he would be of little enough consequence, but the ellon had children. Very _young_ children, and Fëanor knew well how vicious a person might be in defense of their offspring. And he would surely have help from that odd little woman he apparently called a wife. There was a power in her quite alien to Fëanor, and the fact that she was likely to do him little harm with it would doubtless not prevent her from trying.

What, precisely, had he been brought into?

Sharley nudged him with her foot, and pointed at a building that currently had a car lodged through its front window. Surely she did not intend that they meet in _there_?

“Tables,” she said, making a grabbing motion. “Bring them out here. You guys, come help,” she added, pointing at the man and woman who had so blatantly appraised him. They and Thranduil’s odd wife were obviously siblings, and the man had some strange, indefinable power of his own.

There was too much going on that Fëanor didn’t understand, but he did not intend for that to last. He would know all there was to know, no matter what he had to do to find out.

\--

Lorna was not remotely a happy bunny.

She had never, ever seen Thranduil like this – so icy and remote and _alien_. No, he wasn’t human, but this was beyond inhumanity. He might as well have been carved from a glacier.

“Take the twins and go back to the halls,” he said, in a voice that brooked no argument. Naturally, she argued anyway.

“Like hell I will. I’m not leaving you alone with Crazy Light Bulb Guy,” she said firmly. “Mairead can take the twins back. I’m not going anywhere.”

Thranduil glowered down at her, and she glowered right back. No matter how intimidating he was at the moment, he was still _him_ , and she wasn’t about to let him order her around.

“ _No_ , Thranduil. I don’t trust him, and right now I don’t trust you, either,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. _I know you hate him, but don’t_ be _him. Don’t haul off and shank him in the kidney._

Her attempt at humor fell flat, as she’d feared it would, but he didn’t press the issue, which was just as well. Had he not been her husband, his expression, or lack of one, would have scared her shitless.

She passed little Shane to Mairead. “Have Shane help you get them back to the halls,” she said, “and stay here. I’ll try to send Mick and Siobhan after you, but there’s no guarantee _that’ll_ happen.” She doubted even Thranduil could shift the pair of them, if they didn’t want to be shifted.

Mairead loaded Shane into his carrier with obvious reservation, and Lorna turned back to Thranduil. “I’m sure we can get rid’v him,” she said, fighting an urge to brush his silvery hair back. “If Mick and Siobhan don’t drive him off for us.”

“He could very easily kill them, if I fail to protect them,” Thranduil said grimly. “I have not told you anywhere near all that _creature_ has done.”

“Not with Sharley here, he won’t.” Lorna hoped so, anyway. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if the woman didn’t prove a big enough deterrent.

The sky overhead was dimming, a strange haze creeping over the blue. A faint whiff of bitter-metallic storm scent tickled her nose.

“Allanah, is that you?” she asked, giving Thranduil’s hand another squeeze. “Are you pissing the weather off along with you?”

He glanced upward, and something shifted in his mask-like expression. “I do not think so.”

“But you’re not sure?” Christ, that was the last thing they needed.

“I can be sure of nothing, with this ring, but I do not think this is my doing.” His tone was so dubious she doubted even he believed it.

“Pack it in, if you can,” she urged. “As much as you’d like to murder him in the face, we can’t be having another storm.” She was pretty sure there were good odds Light Bulb Guy would try to deliberately antagonize him just to be a little shit, and that…no.

Trying to communicate telepathically with _him_ was probably an epically bad idea, so she’d seek Sharley, and hope her brain didn’t get fried. _Make him behave_ , she said. _Seriously. If Thranduil loses his shit, it won’t end well._

 _Trust me, I know, but I can’t_ force _this fucker to do anything. If worst comes to worst, don’t let him open his mouth. Your telepathy’s useless against him, but he doesn’t even know what telekinesis_ is.

That was actually a comforting thought. Fëanor was God knew how old, a powerful genius who could squish her fragile mortal self like a bug…but only if he could reach her.

A very dark thought entered her mind – so dark that she suspected it had bled over from Thranduil’s to hers: if she wanted to, if she could summon the strength, she could snap Fëanor’s neck from afar. It was the one and only advantage she had, but it was a doozy, and he didn’t know she had it.

On the heels of that thought was another, even darker one: her time at the Institute had proven that Thranduil could, at least with her permission, _override_ her mind. Was he capable of doing it even without her permission? She had an unfortunate feeling the answer was yes. Under any other circumstances, she was quite certain he’d never actually do it, but this was Fëanor, and there was something she still didn’t understand going on in Thranduil’s own mind – something she couldn’t predict.

Mick, Siobhan, Sharley, and Orla dragged out an assortment of chairs out of the pub, hauling them out into the fields. Fëanor, looking predictably disdainful, came out carrying a table in each hand, though he too looked up at the sky.

 _What a show-off_ , Lorna sent Thranduil. _Who does he think he’s impressing?_

“Everyone, I would suspect,” Thranduil said, drawing her closer to him. “If a more arrogant Elf ever lived, I have never heard tell of them.”

He certainly seemed to be impressing Mick and Siobhan, but that was not, Lorna thought, necessarily something he wanted to be doing. Normally she’d never blame the victim, but in this case, if he got his arse grabbed, it was his own fault. He was the one displaying it in leather bloody trousers. (Seriously? Leather? She rather preferred velvet, and not just because it did fantastic things to Thranduil’s own arse.)

Her free hand closed around Thranduil’s forearm. _How long do you wager it’ll take him to get crotch-rot in those leather trousers? Or do Elves just not sweat down below?_

Thranduil didn’t laugh, but a wave of silent, extremely surprised mirth traveled from his mind to hers. He looked down at her with very faint disbelief in his pale eyes.

_What? It’s a valid question. Just imagine if he gets some kind’v fungal infection, and has to let Doc Barry deal with it. He might well die’v bloody embarrassment._

_Firieth Dithen, at times I really do not know what to do with you_ , he said.

Before the Institute, she would have fired back something cheerfully perverted, but she couldn’t do that now. Some of her levity faded, which Thranduil naturally noticed, but he apparently wasn’t too angry to send her what comfort he could. _Later. Do not trouble yourself over it, Lorna. Stay with me, and be yourself._

 _I’ll do my best._ With her children safe away, that was easier to promise.

Once the tables and chairs had been set up, Mick, Siobhan, and Orla stood a little away, talking in Irish while all three of them leered at Fëanor. In spite of everything, Lorna damn near burst out laughing when she realized they were wondering how high a coin would bounce off his arse. He _was_ rather attractive, she supposed, but he wasn’t Thranduil.

“Bain triail as ceann de na dollar airgid Meiriceánach,” she called. “Má fhaigheann tú amháin, beidh mé a shealbhú dó síos.” _Try one of those American silver dollars. If you get one, I’ll hold him down._

They looked at her, and all three of them dissolved into helpless, red-faced laughter. Fëanor eyed them, looking both confused and extremely annoyed. Somehow, Lorna doubted he was used to getting such a reaction from, well, anyone.

“Ar chóir dúinn a tharraingt a bríste amach ar dtús?” Siobhan asked. _Should we pull his trousers off first?_

Lorna snorted. “Leis na bríste?” she asked. “Sé fuair dócha lobhadh-crotch Guatemalan.” _With those trousers? He’s probably got Guatemalan crotch-rot._

That only made the three of them laugh harder, and Thranduil gave her a very pointed look. Some of the murder had left his eyes, doubtless driven out by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Siobhan looked at the crotch in question, open speculation in her eyes. “Níl a fhios agam, ba mhaith liom a bheith sásta a sheiceáil,” she said. “Díreach, tá a fhios agat, a bheith cinnte.” _I don’t know, I’d be willing to check. Just, you know, to make sure._

Lorna gave up, pressing her face against Thranduil’s velvet-clad arm in a fruitless attempt to contain her own laughter. She translated that for his benefit, and only laughed harder at his disgust. _I told you they were a lot like me_ , she said. _I’d’ve done the same thing, if it was you. Just, you know, to make sure._

_Firieth Dithen, have I mentioned lately that I love you?_

\--

Of all the ways Fëanor had expected things to go, this was not one of them.

He knew, of course, that he was one of the most beautiful Elves who had ever lived, but never in either life had he been so openly, unashamedly leered at. The words these four spoke were utterly unknown to him – some language other than English, clearly – but by the tone, he could guess well enough what they were talking about, especially given that three of the four were pointedly staring at his backside. Only Thranduil’s wife wasn’t, though she seemed to be egging the other three on.

He was unused to this, and found it actually made him rather uncomfortable. These vulgar people really had no shame at all, and he felt, absurdly, a little like a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop. The tall, pale-haired woman certainly looked like she wanted to bite him. It was all somewhat demeaning.

If Sharley noticed, she gave no sign – but then, she seemed entirely immune to his appearance. The Edain of Kirk had looked their fill, far more subtly than these three, but she seemed entirely indifferent – and for some reason, he found that vaguely insulting.

But he had a foster-grandson to see, very soon. How many descendants might he have living in Aman? All these millennia, he had given no thought to the possibility, still so consumed by his own bitterness. It was certainly strange to think of it now.

He caught Thranduil’s wife watching him, her assessing stare quite different than that of her brother and sister. She was a strange little creature, and he could not fathom why Thranduil would have wed her. Yes, her fëa was lovely, but that could not have been enough to induce him to _marry_ her.

But it was not Fëanor’s concern, and he did not really care. He spent the next fifteen minutes glowering at the ogling trio, knowing Sharley would make him very unhappy if he did anything to any of them. Sharley had found him Edain clothes in Kirk, but until now he had spurned most of them. He could do that with the trousers no longer, if he didn’t want to keep getting _this_ reception.

He was spared further discomfort by the arrival of four Elves: the twins, a golden-haired elleth who must be their mother, and the ellon one of his sons had raised.

He obviously had some Noldor blood in him, even if he was not blood kin to Fëanor – such dark hair and grey eyes were a hallmark of his people. He seemed very reserved, though – quite unlike any of Fëanor’s children. Which son had raised him? There were so many questions to be asked, if this Elrond would answer them.

\--

There were many, many, _many_ things Elrond could have done without, but this was certainly one he had never thought he would have to face.

Maglor had, against all odds, become a father figure to him and Elros, but neither had ever given any thought as to what that meant in terms of relation to Fëanor, who by then had been long dead. Out of all the sons of Fëanor, Maglor had been the only one who had wished to atone for his misdeeds, in some fashion – and the brutal truth was that, unlike Elrond and Elros’ true parents, he was the one who did not abandon them.

But _Fëanor_ – how in Eru’s name had Sharley freed him from the Halls of Mandos, and _why_? Surely she could not have thought he would be of any actual help, or that she had any hope at all of controlling him.

He sat now at the far end of one table, Sharley to his left and empty air to his right. One look at the two Donovan siblings and the woman called Orla told Elrond why, too.

Thranduil sat as far away as he could, Lorna beside him. He looked rather murderous, but less so than Elrond would have expected. That, too, was possibly the doing of those three shameless Edain, and the fact that his wife’s tiny hand was clamped on his, Nenya squarely beneath her palm.

Elrond sat warily, Celebrían to his right and Elrohir to his left. It was Sharley he addressed first: “ _How_ did you remove him from the Halls of Mandos?”

“Námo has a shitty sense of humor,” she said dryly. “Do me a favor and don’t shoot him.”

“He is the only Kinslayer here,” Thranduil said, with deceptive calm. He earned a very exasperated look from his wife, whose grip on his hand tightened.

“Look, there’s bad shit coming in a few years and I needed help, and he’s what Námo gave me. He and I are gonna stay up here, and we’re all gonna _try_ to get along.” This last was said with a very pointed glare at Fëanor, who glared right back.

“I do not think you understand how impossible a thing you ask,” Thranduil said, even and icy. “You know what he has done.”

“I do,” she said, and she sounded oddly weary, if a dead creature could be weary. “Keep in mind, Thranduil, I don’t just know a person’s history, I _see_ it. I knew better than any of you just what he’s done. If I thought he’d be a problem here, I’d just kill him and send him back to Námo, but there are too many possible futures where we’ll need him.”

“Why?” Thranduil asked, still icy, still aloof, but with the heat of barely-suppressed rage in his eyes.

“Because he’s a killer,” she said flatly. “He’ll do what I wouldn’t ask you to do, and what I don’t want to do myself. You bought Von Ratched’s future when you killed him, but I’ve seen what would happen if I let you keep it, so I’m not letting you.”

There was a chill in her voice that made Elrond’s skin crawl – and he must not have been the only one, for Thranduil said no more. Yet.

“All right, Lord Elrond, I’m sorry I had to drag you into this,” she went on, rather more gently. “I know you didn’t ask for this, and if it gets to be too much, tell me. This can stop whenever you want, but I’d appreciate it if you could talk to him a little.”

Most of Elrond wished he was literally anywhere else, but part of him – a very _small_ part – couldn’t help but be curious. “I do not know what to say,” he said in Sindarin.

Fëanor regarded him with an intensity that could swiftly become exhausting, were it allowed to linger. “Which of my sons raised you?” he asked – in Quenya.

“Maglor,” Elrond said evenly, and continued in Sindarin, “he and Maedhros slew all of Sirion save my brother and I, after our mother leapt to the sea with the Silmaril.” He paused. “Maglor told us it was not our fault our parents left us for dead, choosing a Silmaril over their children.” Young as he had been, Elrond did not think he had imagined the trace of bitterness in Maglor’s tone. Eru knew his own father had valued the Silmarils over all of his sons.

“He was good to you?” Fëanor asked, still stubbornly clinging to Quenya.

Elrond sighed. “He was, surprisingly so. It was a very long time before I understood why. He alone wished to turn aside from the mad quest upon which you had all set yourselves, bound though he was by the Oath. Raising Elros and I was the only atonement he could make.”

He got no further. An echo of thunder rumbled over head, the sky hazing yet further.

“You will speak not one more word of that accursed tongue in my realm, Fëanor.”

Elrond look at Thranduil, and found him statue-still, his eyes hard and cold as glaciers. The power of Nenya shivered through the air, and for the first time, Fëanor actually paused. If he had any sense at all, he wouldn’t push Thranduil on this, but sense was not something he was renowned for. Indeed, he tensed, glowering, and started to rise, only to freeze. His eyes widened, but he didn’t – or couldn’t – move.

“Please tell me you brought wine,” Lorna said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Let’s all get ossified, and try this again in fifteen minutes. Sharley, make him behave. Thranduil, stop with the weather and take a walk with me.”

Fëanor dropped back into his seat, livid with rage and no small amount of confusion, but Sharley slapped her right hand on his face before he could actually do anything. He recoiled, nearly unseating himself, his glare hot as lightning.

Lorna, through Eru knew what trickery, pried Thranduil from his seat, leading him into the village before he could say anything.

Well. This was off to a wonderful start. At least no one was dead yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual harassment is not funny, it’s _not_ , and yet I laughed my ass off writing Mick, Siobhan, and Orla making Fëanor so very, very uncomfortable. Poor baby, he really doesn’t play well with others, and that’s not going to change any time soon. He _is_ Fëanor, after all.
> 
> Title means “Reunions and Sexual Harassment” in Irish. As ever, your reviews keep the creativity flowing, and make me do tiny jigs.


	53. Ionradh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which goons show up, more wanton destruction happens, and Thranduil comes to some unwelcome conclusions.
> 
> Note: I originally had Sharley cheat like hell in this chapter, but that entire plot thread just felt _wrong_ to me, so I've axed it.

Quite frankly, Lorna had no idea what she was doing – she just knew she had to get Thranduil away from Fëanor before something irreversible and/or fatal happened.

She knew very little of the shit Fëanor had done, and couldn’t imagine the full impact it might have had on Thranduil. There was nothing she could say, so she just took his hand between both of hers, his ring warm beneath her palm.

“I am frightening you, aren’t I?” he asked, his silvery hair tickling her shoulders when he drew her closer.

“Just a bit,” she admitted, looking up at him. “I know you want to murder him in the face, allanah, but Sharley wouldn’t’ve brought him here for no reason.”

“I know,” Thranduil said, his tone laced with irritation. “That does not mean I must like it. Nor does it mean I will allow him to do as he pleases.”

Lorna hesitated. “If – look, if he’s a twat, let Sharley punish him, okay? She’s basically his parole officer, and she doesn’t sound any too happy about it. I think she could be worse than you, without actually…y’know, damaging him. If he’s damaged, he’s useless.” She paused. “What did Sharley mean by saying you bought Von Ratched’s future when you killed him?”

Thranduil sighed, stepping around a smashed streetlamp. The glass didn’t crunch beneath his feet, but it did beneath hers, and she caught a faint, worrisome whiff of gasoline from the interior of the pub as they passed. Because they really needed a fire hazard right now. “He was to play some vital role in many potential timelines, and he would have had to kill in all of them. In killing him, I would have to take his place, which was a cost I accepted – yet now she will not allow me to pay it. Instead, she brings me _him_.”

Lorna all but dragged Thranduil around the corner of the surgery, out of sight of the others and into the cool shade. “Allanah, d’you not think there might be a _reason_ for that? She sees the bloody future. If she was willing to go get help and get saddled with _him_ , she must’ve seen you do something completely terrible.”

And Lorna could well believe it. Love him though she did, she was certain he had it in him to be very cold, and very ruthless. God knew she’d seen flashes of it since they met, whenever he felt his people were threatened, and now he had that damned ring.

He said nothing, so she went on. “Allanah, there’s some – something’s _off_ with you. In you. I can feel it, every time I touch your mind. Have you got any idea what happened?” 

She felt rage flash through him, hot and brief as lightning, and almost recoiled. It was gone almost as soon as it came, and he shut his eyes, his ordinary composure returning. “I do not know what it is,” he said. “Only that it began when I overrode your mind to attack Von Ratched. It is a strange, mental fog, heavier at times than others, but it only truly eases when you are near. I do not know how to rid myself of it, but I believe I know how I gained it, and why.”

Lorna wasn’t at all sure she wanted to ask. Physically, he had regained the regal bearing he wore like armor against Fëanor, without any of the languor he normally displayed, but the force of his inner turmoil was practically a physical thing. She really didn’t think she wanted an answer, but she asked anyway. “How?”

His arctic eyes met hers, twin wells of rage and grief and something else, something she couldn’t name. “You gave me consent to enter your mind, to use it, but Firieth Dithen – Lorna – how much did you truly _mean_ it? Consent does not equal desire. We were both desperate.”

That gave her pause. She wanted to say that of course she’d meant it – he’d asked that of her before, when the government goons had come, and she’d been just fine with it. But that second time, with Von Ratched – she’d given permission, technically, and there really had been some satisfaction in it, but feeling the full, staggering strength of Thranduil’s mind had scared the shit out of her – and had, if Von Ratched was to be believed, nearly killed her.

“I…yes,” she said, but her tone was dubious even to her own ears. “I think I did. There was a hell’v a lot going on.”

He sighed, running the fingers of his free hand through her hair, until they reached her dangling braid. “I do not think that you did. You let me in out of desperation, but some part of you must have resisted.”

“Why would you think that?” she asked, anxiety fluttering in her gut.

“Your mind is not so strong as mine, but it is very strong. I believe it saw what I did as an attack, and retaliated as best it could.”

Lorna winced. “That could just as easily have been Von Ratched’s fault,” she pointed out. “You really _did_ attack him, and he fought back hard.” She would much rather believe that than her mind having tried to reject Thranduil’s. “You drew off me when the goons came, remember? Neither’v us had any problem after that.”

“True,” he conceded, but he didn’t sound as though he believed it.

She poked him in the chest, the velvet of his dress/robe/whatever soft beneath her fingertip. “None’v that. I don’t think we’ll ever _know_ either way, but it’s way more likely it was him. The important question is what do we do about it?”

“I do not know,” he sighed. “Not yet. Lady Galadriel would likely have some idea, but I am _not_ asking Sharley to fetch her. Not with Fëanor here. He killed many of her mother’s kin in the First Kinslaying, and I fear she would demand her ring back and destroy him.”

“Well…shit,” Lorna said, leaning forward and resting her forehead against his shoulder. “If we’re going to have that bastard around for a while, we’ve got to do _something_ about this. Otherwise you really will kill him sooner or later.”

He didn’t contest that, and she wasn’t surprised. Would it help if she kissed him? _Could_ she kiss him, without triggering anything…unpleasant?

Now was probably not the time to find out, so she settled for rising onto her tiptoes and kissing his cheek. “We’ll work it out later,” she said. “Meanwhile, I think we both need wine, if we’re to deal with Light Bulb Guy again. You stay here, and I’ll go see if anyone was bright enough to bring some.” She smirked a little. “Mick, Siobhan, and Orla ought to keep him plenty distracted, and Molly and Nuala aren’t exactly subtle.” Mick had said Orla was a lesbian, but supposedly he was straight, and he didn’t have any problem admiring male Elves. Not so surprising that she didn’t, either.

“For that alone, I will forebear killing him,” Thranduil said, and she was relieved to hear some very faint amusement in his tone. 

“Good. Stay here, and I’ll get us some booze.”

\--

Sharley must have seen how uncomfortable Elrond was, for she hauled Fëanor to his feet and all but dragged him across the field. Her strength was no match for his, but she seemed to pull him along by sheer force of will.

“All right, stop with the Quenya,” she said. “I know you want to talk to Elrond, but that won’t happen if you keep antagonizing Thranduil.” She had to run through some rather ridiculous sign language to get her point across, but she managed it. For whatever reason, it was easier to understand her than any of the living Edain.

“You think he will kill me?” he asked, with the barest quirk of an eyebrow.

Her answering look was entirely unimpressed. “I see the future, genius,” she said flatly. “Two lines outta four, he _does_ kill you.”

“The other two?” he asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

How she could sigh when she didn’t breathe, Fëanor didn’t know, but she managed it. “In one, you’re fine,” she said. “In the other, _Lorna_ kills you. Don’t write her off just because she’s mortal. She could rip your head off without touching you.”

“Thranduil’s wife?” he asked. He wanted to scoff, but – well, _something_ had kept him from rising, something invisible but strong as a mithril vice. He had thought it some ability of Sharley’s, since it would not have surprised him. That an Edain should possess it…

“Thranduil’s wife,” she affirmed. Her odd eyes held his, and would not let him look away. “This isn’t Ennor as you knew it in more ways than one, and it’s only gonna get worse. I need you to actually _help me_.”

Fëanor hated meeting Sharley’s gaze. She was so very young, but her mismatched eyes were ancient: she saw not only what was, but what might have been, and what might still be. How was she not completely insane? She lacked age, she lacked brilliance, but he could see the depth of all of history in her eyes, and it made him, old and powerful and genius as he was, feel very small.

“You see what I did?” he asked. He’d never yet given much thought to her reading of his history – to just what that _really_ meant. The memory of Alqualondë was a bitter one now, and to know that she didn’t just _know_ , she _saw_ ….

“This is your atonement, remember?” she asked, reading his face, if not his mind. “You’ve killed so many people, and you’ll kill more, but you’ll help me save the world. But you have to learn how to work with these people first.”

Much of him still didn’t understand why he should bother. Even he knew there could be no true redemption for his crimes – he had murdered hundreds of his own kin, abandoned most of those who supported him, and set his sons upon a quest that doomed them all. _No one_ could be redeemed after something like that. “And when this is over?” he asked. “What then?”

“I guess that’ll be up to Námo,” she said. “Maybe he’ll let you out into Aman. Or—” She paused. “Or, he might let you explore my world, the Other. It’d be a challenge, even for you.”

The thought…was not wholly unappealing. He would, he knew, be shunned in Aman, even after all this time. That world they had crossed through, the Other – it was a nightmare of a place. He could not imagine there was anything in it worth seeing, but he would not know unless he looked.

“We’ve gotta get through this first,” she said. “So get through it.”

\--

Thranduil waited until Lorna returned, bearing a dusty bottle of Dorwinion nearly half as long as she was tall.

“Nobody brought any glasses, but I for one don’t need one,” she said, setting it down with a _thud_ so she could extract the cork. “I think Sharley’s giving out at Fëanor, if it makes you feel any better. He sure as hell looks disturbed, anyway, though poor Elrond looks worse. I think he’d already had a few before I got there.”

“I cannot fault him for it.” Thranduil picked up the bottle, leading her to the small bench behind the surgery, reserved for any smokers who happened to be there. It had been a very long time since he had drunk without a glass, but just now, he hardly cared. “I do not want him here, Firieth Dithen. I know we may need him, but I do not want him.” 

“He’s Sharley’s problem,” Lorna said, taking the bottle from him. She choked when she tried to drink out of it, snorting the ruby liquid out of her nose and all over her worn white tank top. “ _Christ_ , I forgot how much’v a kick that had,” she said, coughing.

Once he might easily have licked all that wine off her, but he feared what doing so would do to her now. Neither of them really knew her boundaries, and he was not going to come anywhere close to pushing them. “You are meant to _sip_ Dorwinion,” he said, taking the bottle back. “Otherwise you will be unconscious inside of ten minutes, I will have to carry you _and_ this bottle, and you will be unable to save Fëanor from my dubious mercy.

She was clearly trying to mimic the expression he wore when he was entirely unimpressed, but couldn’t maintain it while coughing, and dissolved into rather choked laughter. She tried to wipe her face on the hem of her shirt, but it was already soaked with wine, so she turned and rubbed her face against his arm, heedless of the velvet.

“What?” she asked, when she saw his incredulous expression. “Your damn sleeve’s black – it’s not like it’ll stain.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Firieth Dithen, I do not think you will ever cease to surprise me.”

“At least you’ll never be bored,” she said, and froze.

She must have felt it at the same moment he did, which was somewhat impressive. Her ability to attack and defend with her mind might be inferior to that of the Eldar, but her range of detection had to come close to matching his.

Someone was approaching down the motorway – several people, by the feel of it, and not friendly.

“More goons?” she asked, looking at him with wide eyes.

“I believe so,” Thranduil said, rising, tamping down the anger that tried to curl through him.

“Allanah, wait,” Lorna said, hopping to her feet as well. “I’ve got an idea.” There was a savagery in her tone that he wasn’t certain he liked.

She looked up at him, and in her eyes was the strange, reptilian coldness he had seen in the Institute. “Your spell isn’t a barrier, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make a real one.” A slight smirk tugged at her mouth. “They can’t get into the village if there’s no road. Let’s make a mess.”

\--

Lorna wasn’t used to her anger being a cold thing, but cold it was, though it surged through her with the force of a rogue wave.

Her village. They wanted her village, _again_ , in spite of what had happened to the last group.

Fuck that.

Obviously, killing some and imprisoning the rest wasn’t good enough. Thranduil could easily do the same with this lot, but she thought a different approach was needed this time.

It wasn’t a terribly long walk to the motorway, and even she, short though she was, could cover ground in a hurry if she had to.

She hadn’t tried to do much of anything with her telekinesis since the Institute, but she knew that it was there, and she knew what could be done with it. This would probably be pushing the limits of what she could manage, but the force of her strength thrummed through her, shivering beneath her skin. Even if she couldn’t pull this off entirely, she could make one hell of a mess.

The go-kart racing hadn’t reached this end of the village. It was empty and quiet, smelling of sun-baked grass and warm asphalt, moss already forming on the pavements. It was a shame to tear it up, but tear she would.

Even now, Lorna didn’t know exactly how this worked. Von Ratched probably could have explained the mechanics of it, but really, the mechanics didn’t matter – it was more or less intuitive. Everything had potential energy – lines she could feel, even if she couldn’t quite see them. Why they responded to her, or even how, she didn’t know, but respond they did, with a vengeance.

She didn’t use her hands to guide them, because doing so actually made it harder. It was purely mental effort, and oh, it _was_ an effort, but she called and the threads answered, and magic surged through her with a force that sent pure euphoria singing through her veins.

The asphalt before her cracked and heaved as she pulled at the threads, a fissure spreading entirely across the road, cracking its way across the village border. She tore and she twisted and the euphoria rose, headier than cocaine and far more pure.

Somewhere beneath the ground, a water-mane burst, but the supply had to have been shut off at some point, because it didn’t gush for very long. The fissure widened as she grabbed at all the earth beneath the asphalt, hauling it up and dropping into a crude but very heavy barricade, a good five feet taller than Thranduil’s head—

She lost it then, or lost herself in it, tangled up in her high while she tore apart the edge of Lasgaelen.

\--

Thranduil had seen the results of Lorna’s telekinesis once, but _this_ was…beautiful, in a savage, very destructive way. The road and the land to either side fractured, then all but shattered, whirling dust filling the air. She was coughing on it, but she didn’t seem to notice.

Her barricade rose, crude but sturdy, while sweat dripped from her temples. To Thranduil’s eyes she was always beautiful, but now she might have been an avenging Vala, her fëa so brilliantly aflame it almost hurt to look at her.

She staggered when she was through, her expression somewhat dazed. Something akin to delirium danced in her eyes, and she burst out laughing.

“Should I do that around the whole village?” she asked. “This feels bloody _amazing_.” She stumbled over the strength rubble and took his hand in her tiny one, and – _oh_.

This magic, whatever it was, was far wilder than Nenya’s – lightning barely contained, drawn up from the earth beneath their feet. The sheer strength of it should have destroyed her mortal body, should have burned it up from the inside out, but instead it flowed _through_ her – and through him. He’d felt it before, when he touched her mind, but nowhere near to this extent, sparking along his nerves, more invigorating than the finest Dorwinion.

“Let’s do that again,” Lorna said, her tone feverish, but red dripped from her nose, a single drop of blood he caught with his sleeve.

“Let us not,” Thranduil said. “Save your strength, Firieth Dithen. Should any of those fools somehow make it over your barricade, I may wish you to hold them for me.” Nenya could do many things, but that was not one of them. Of all the beings he had ever known, Lorna, Von Ratched, and the Istari were the only ones who could truly manipulate objects with only their minds.

She nodded, and still her magic washed through him. She could hold anyone who made it over that wall, and he could deal with them as he saw fit.

He certainly had plenty of ideas.

\--

It had been long since Fëanor had heard the rumble of earth rent apart, but it was not a sound one forgot. He tensed, whirling, the ground shuddering beneath his feet.

“What was that?” he asked, already moving toward it.

“Lorna,” Sharley said, following with her unsettlingly silent tread. Only the Eldar were meant to move so quietly, but of course this wretched creature managed it. “You’re gonna see why I need your help. And we’re gonna get you a gun.”

Fëanor had heard the word ‘gun’, but hadn’t seen anything to give the word definition. Weaponry of all kinds could be fascinating, though he knew better by now than to expect any kind of elegance. The things the Edain made could function beyond his wildest dreams, but in form they were all sorely lacking.

This Lorna, though – if she was responsible for what he had just felt, that was…disturbing. He greatly disliked unknown threats, and an Edain with such power was entirely outside his experience.

He wove around the destruction wrought by the twins’ inability to drive – and he would be rectifying _that_ as soon as he was allowed – and saw a wall where there had been no wall before. It was crude, nothing more than packed earth and the strange stone that made Edain roads. Its construction explained the great disturbance that had shuddered through the ground, for there was an impressive crevasse at its base. The tiny Edain woman stood beside it, her fëa flaring like a star – and she must have somehow passed that radiance to Thranduil, for his too was brighter.

The sight gave Fëanor more than a little pause. He had accepted at once that this was not Ennor as he had known it, but not until now had he been confronted face-to-face with actual _magic_. Moreover, magic of a strength that could shift so very much. And it was housed within an _Edain_.

He could feel outsiders approaching, and wondered who and what they were, that Thranduil and this Edain would take such measures to keep them out. There was no point in asking, since he was quite sure Thranduil would not deign to answer, and he would see soon enough himself.

“I hoped this wouldn’t happen,” Sharley said, exuding exasperation. “Too late now.”

He could feel the shape of them now – four minds, curious, wary, and angry in various measures. To read them directly might well be fatal to the Edain, fragile creatures that they were – and in truth, he had yet to try in Ennor. He didn’t know if he still could.

Whatever they were driving was so quiet that Edain ears might not have heard it until the tires crunched over the debris before the wall. He heard a man mutter, “What the fuck?”

“We need reinforcements,” a woman said. “This looks new. _Really_ new.”

A smirk curved Thranduil’s mouth, and Fëanor was quite certain the woodland king would _love_ if any of them tried to scale the wall.

“Call it in,” a different man said. “We need to get this thing down.”

Beside Fëanor, Sharley pinched the bridge of her nose. “I hate humans.”

“Were you not once one?” he asked.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t hate them,” she grumbled. “I was never _that_ dumb.”

“Is something about to explode?” Lorna’s brother, slightly out-of-breath, came jogging up.

"Probably," Sharley sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, what I had just wasn't working. Don't worry, she'll have another bad idea later.
> 
> Title means “Invasion” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with life and joy.


	54. Ciallaíonn sé seo Cogadh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the goons are captured, Thranduil and Lorna find some very unfortunate things within their minds, and he makes an extremely regrettable decision. (Though who it will be regrettable _for_ remains to be seen.)

Lorna, still cruising her telekinetic high, didn’t pause to think before she scrambled up her new wall, drawn by the word ‘backup’. She nearly pitched right over the edge when she reached the top, grabbing at all the threads around yet another SUV and yanking, hard.

The result surprised even her. Not only did all the windows shatter, the tires burst and the entire engine compartment crumpled.

The driver and all four passengers bailed, scrambling and swearing and she snatched them through panicked instinct. Von Ratched had knocked her out several times, but she didn’t know how he’d actually _done_ it – and even if she had, she probably didn’t have the precision.

She snatched frantically at what she sincerely hoped were the lines of their consciousness, and pulled. Three out of the four dropped like shot ducks, but the fourth staggered like a drunk. Lorna grabbed at him, and only succeeded in toppling off the wall, landing on the car’s dented hood with a bone-jarring _thud._

“ _Fuck_ ,” she snarled, wheezing. Rolling off the car was more painful than she liked, but she managed to stumble after the last holdout. “Get back here, you little weasel!” The thread of his consciousness was nowhere to be found, so she settled for tackling him and lamping him out.

“God _dammit_.” She blew on her stinging knuckles, trying to soothe them. This fucking day…Main Street smashed to shit, Fëanor, and now _this_.

Her nose was still bleeding, but trying to wipe it on the hem of her wine-sticky shirt just made an even bigger mess. Great.

 _Fuck everything_ , she thought, flopping onto the rubble-strewn pavement. Digging through this eejit’s head ought to be easier now that he was unconscious. He was maybe in his early forties,  
with sandy hair and pleasantly unmemorable features, and she really hoped she hadn’t given him a concussion.

“Lorna.” 

She jumped, flailing, and would have smacked Thranduil right in the face if he hadn’t been so quick to dodge. “ _Christ_ , allanah,” she said, wincing. She’d cracked her right shoulder on the edge of the divot in the hood, and while it hadn’t fully dislocated, it still hurt like a mad bastard. Her right hip wasn’t happy, either, and she only realized she’d bitten her tongue when she spat red into the dust. “You really need to learn how to make some noise when you walk, or I’ll braid bells into your eyebrows.”

He gave her a look that said, quite eloquently, _Really?_ “You have done enough, Firieth Dithen,” he said, wiping her nose with the edge of his sleeve.

“Not yet, I haven’t,” she said, and sneezed. Of course that had to send a brief gush of blood from her nose. _Gross_. “We need to know why these morons came here, after the warning we gave them.” They’d taken so long to come back, and only four of them… “I’ll do this twat, then I’ll stop.” She didn’t feel like she had to – even the pain of landing on the car hadn’t killed her euphoria, but she didn’t want Thranduil worried any more than he already had to be.

He must have sensed she wouldn’t budge on this, for he said, “Just one,” brushing her hair back from her forehead. 

_She skimmed the man’s mind at first, skating along the surface, figuring her answers wouldn’t lie any deeper. Unfortunately, she was so very right that the shock of it booted her right out again._

Lorna twitched again, and would have fallen over if Thranduil hadn’t grabbed her. Something lurched within her, borne by rising panic. “They’re us,” she said, blinking hard. “The gifted, or whatever you want to call us. All four’v them.”

Thranduil’s expression hardened, his pale eyes icy. “Wait, Firieth Dithen,” he said. “We will bring them to the halls. Rest, and we will find whatever might be found within their minds.”

“I don’t need rest,” she said, looking down at the unconscious man. The panic, the horror, mingled with her lingering euphoria, was almost enough to make her sick – though she thought the pain in her ribs might be contributing to that.

“If you wish to avoid damaging them, yes, you do,” Thranduil said, and he had a point, dammit. She wanted to dig, and she wanted to dig now, but if she tried in her current condition, there was a chance she’d turn their brains into mush. She didn’t actually know what she was doing, after all.

“Fine,” she said, wiping her nose on her bare arm before she knew what she was doing. “Oh, _dammit_.” 

“You need practice, Lorna.” Thranduil wiped her nose again, shaking his head. “You have too much power for your hröa to bear. I would rather you not kill yourself through over-exertion.”

“Later,” she said. “Thranduil, they’ve got magic. The bloody _government_ sent them, and they’ve got _magic_.” She didn’t think she could stress that enough, and couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t more stressed.

He wiped her nose again. “Lorna, I know. We will bring them to the halls, and we will discover why.” That hardness, the ice, still lurked in his eyes. “I do not think it will prove as simple as it appears.”

Quite honestly, Lorna didn’t, either. Miranda had said some Gifted worked in various governments, but in secret. Four of them working _for_ the government made no sense.

Elladan and Elrohir came vaulting over the wall with frankly annoying Elven grace, followed by Fëanor. Thranduil spoke to them in Sindarin, and each grabbed an inert goon, hauling them back over the wall. Thranduil grabbed the fourth, but shook his head when Lorna rose to follow him.

“Do not try to climb yet, Lorna,” he said. “You landed harder than I like, and I do not want you falling again.”

She wasn’t tempted to argue; standing made her head swim, and she leaned heavily on the mangled SUV. She needed a drink, but she doubted that was a good idea right now. Though the SUV was a mess, she tried to dig through it anyway, brushing aside crumbs of glass as she pried open the glove compartment. 

Papers spilled everywhere, and she gathered them together as best she could, wishing she had something to bundle them up in. The radio was smashed to bits, and she was pretty sure they hadn’t actually had a chance to get a message out before she destroyed the car.

“Have you found anything?”

Lorna jumped, smacked her head on the roof the car, and swore. “That’s it, the bells are going in your eyebrows,” she said, glowering at Thranduil. “These were in the glove compartment. We’d best pick the car apart just to see what else there is.”

“Not yet,” he said. “We must bring those four to the halls before they wake, and I do not want you trying to lift that car or anything else yet. You have done enough today.”

She rubbed her aching head, hating to agree with him but unable to do otherwise. Her nose was still dripping, albeit sluggishly, her entire right side hurt, and she could already feel a lump forming on the back of her head. “Okay,” she said, eying her wall.

“No.” Thranduil picked her up and scaled the wall one-handed, somehow managed not to jostle her along the way. _Elves_. He made it down the other side with equal ease, but he didn’t set her down.

“I can walk, you know,” she pointed out. “The goons can’t.”

“There are others who can carry the goons. Including _Fëanor_ ,” he sighed. “Sharley, he may come to my halls, but he may not enter. Linger in my forest if you absolutely must.”

Lorna hazarded a glance at Fëanor, who looked so offended she burst out laughing, pressing her forehead against Thranduil’s shoulder. The fact that even now the poor bastard was being ogled by her brother and sister really didn’t help. He ought to be _grateful_ he wasn’t going into the halls, or he might well get mobbed. Mick and Siobhan just stared at his arse; Gran might well pinch it.

Elladan and Elrohir shouldered their goons again, while poor Lord Elrond took the fourth. He actually looked somewhat relieved by the interruption, and Lorna really couldn’t blame him. Even that brief conversation had been beyond awkward to witness.

Her nose stopped bleeding midway through their walk, thank God, but the euphoria lingered. If that was what massive use of telekinesis did…both other times she tried to use it on anything major, she’d knocked herself out. If this was the normal result, no wonder Von Ratched had used it all the damn time.

_I know how good you feel right now, Firieth Dithen, but at the same time, I worry. Your nose should not bleed every time you use your ability._

_It doesn’t happen_ every _time_ , she protested. _I threw Von Ratched around without a problem. I think it’s because both times it’s happened, I was moving something big. I just need practice._

_Then practice on small things. You were not born with magic, Lorna, and I cannot help but wonder what prolonged use might do to you. Hopefully, someone in the DMA will have answers._

Lorna hadn’t thought of that, and she wished Thranduil hadn’t, either. _Thanks, Captain Buzzkill._

He eyed her. _Would you really have taken any care of yourself, were I not?_

She resisted a childish urge to stick her tongue out at him. Barely. _How long do I need to wait, before I go digging through their heads? I know you could do it, but there are plenty’v things you’re not necessarily going to recognize as important. There’s loads about the human world you haven’t been taught yet._ He had to have far greater precision than she did even now, but she wasn’t willing to risk him missing something.

_You may try when Elrond gives you leave. Eat something and rest, if you can, but I suspect he will forbid you wine or ale._

Lorna sighed. _Of bloody course he will._

\--

Thranduil left Lorna in the care of her grandmother in one of the healing ward’s private rooms, and had the four Edain brought with them. He sedated all of them, for he did not wish them to wake until he was ready.

Gifted. He would pass them on to Miranda when he was through with them, and she could do with them what she wished. 

He eyed them all, laid out on the long-disused tables. None were young, by Edain standards, but neither were they old, and they did not have the look of all the others who had come before. Those had been hardened men, warriors in some way or another, but these four were not. New to this task, it would seem, but why?

They would know soon enough, once Lorna looked. He was sorely tempted to do it himself; while he lacked Galadriel’s precision, and had injured Edain in the past, he had done so while manipulating their minds, not reading them. These four were not invaders of that he was fairly certain, and likely better-off in his custody than out of it. Whatever was being held over their heads, he would tell Miranda, who could do whatever was necessary. More detail would have to wait for Lorna, and she was not going anywhere near them until he and Elrond were satisfied that it would do her no harm. It was a certainty that he would miss something, were he to do this himself, but if she was too drained, she likely would, too.

The only two people in this entire cavern who could truly be counted on to be reassuring without being overbearing were Elrond and Celebrían, but their grasp of English was nowhere near complete. For now, they needed an empath – specifically, Sveta, since he doubted there was anything in the world that could overwhelm her. He had no intention of allowing these four to wake any time soon, but when he did, she was the only help he trusted.

\--

Lorna ate a very large sandwich perched on the edge of the bed, idly swinging her legs. She obediently drank the cordial Lord Elrond made her – no hardship, because it somehow tasted like cherries. After washing her face and changing into a fresh T-shirt Celebrían brought her, she felt like a human again, albeit one who was still buzzing with adrenaline. Whatever was in that cordial made her pain vanish entirely, and she wondered if human doctors would be able to replicate it.

Celebrían sat with her, saying little. There was something incredibly peaceful about the Elf woman, who always took such delight in the twins when she saw them. “Can you do this?”she asked.

“I can. They just need to stay unconscious.” Goons or not, she didn’t want to scramble their brains, and if they were awake to fight her, she just might. Christ, she wished this gift came with a user’s manual; since Thranduil’s came from a different source, so to speak, she doubted he could teach her very effectively.

With a sigh, she hopped off the bed. She was probably as good as she was going to get, so Lord Elrond had better sign off on her.

“I doubt I could stop you,” he said, when she asked. The sternness in his grey eyes reminded her absurdly of Sveta’s. “Be careful.”

“That’s the plan,” she said, padding barefoot out into the main triage room. All four were still well under, while Thranduil sat looking as troubled as he was capable of looking.

“They were forced into this,” he said, looking at her. “That much I gleaned, though I dare not probe further.”

“Forced?” Lorna asked, hopping up onto the table beside him.

“Your government found them, and forced them to come to Lasgaelen. How it found them, I do not know, nor what leverage was used to drive them to this. That, you must divine.”

“Brilliant.” She peered at the man nearest, the one she’d cold-cocked. He was already developing what would probably be a fantastic bruise over his right eye. If they’d been coerced into coming out here, she really didn’t want to fuck up their brains.

She didn’t actually need to touch someone to read their mind, but this time she did anyway, climbing off the table to stand beside him. Drawing a deep breath, she let her mind ease into his.

_She didn’t know what Thranduil saw when he read a person’s mind, but to her this man’s was a landscape – specifically, Dublin, sat beneath a dark and stormy sky. Half-formed people swarmed its streets, blurry and indistinct, many completely faceless._

_Joseph, Joseph in his tiny flat, divorced, primary school teacher. What made him him was somewhere within this landscape, beneath this leaden sky, and she hunted him now, trying to reassure him, as best she was actually able. There was so much fear in his mind, formless, but there was a source somewhere, and she would damn well find it._

_This Dublin was so hazy, blurry about the edges, and it gave her the creeps. Her feet drew her to a building, drab and unremarkable, but it exuded such terror that she was sure she’d found what she was looking for. She passed through the door, an observer unseen by any others, and waited._

_This room had far more definition – it was an actual memory, not merely a representation of Joseph’s mind. They’d found him, found the finder, and the irony was not lost on him as he sat in an uncomfortable chair in a grey room, waiting._

Lorna was right – he was _Gifted. Moreover, he like her, had not been born with his ability. Here, here was a more recent memory, tangled up within the fear._

_He was a finder, this man, as Gran was. Joseph, his name was; he had been a schoolteacher before his gift manifested itself, before the government swooped down upon him._

_In this memory he stood a bland grey office, smelling of expensive electronics and some strange, harsh aroma he couldn’t identify._

_“Do this, and you will be free.” The speaker was a woman, perhaps in her fifties – one of the sort of businesswomen so well-put-together you’d think they’d stepped out of a magazine, her suit various shades of black and grey. “We’re only asking this one favor of you, Joseph.”_

_Favor. Right. His curse wasn’t like others; if the government wanted to lock him up and throw away the key, he had no defense. Yes, he had a terrible fear that this was going to get him killed, but what choice did he have?_

That _gave Lorna quite a bit of pause. The man’s gift truly was invisible, so how had the government found him? He ought to have remained safely hidden, overlooked in favor of those with flashier, more dangerous gifts._

_“Your family will be left in peace, once you complete this task,” she said. “You will not be without help.” She pushed a folder across her glossy desk, and Joseph picked it up with deep trepidation. In it were three photographs, and Lorna recognized them as the others who had come to Lasgaelen with him._

_“They are like you,” the woman said. “Altered. Donal manipulates technology; Jack possess the ability to heal, and Niamh manipulates and creates fire. You are go to Lasgaelen and burn down the village, while you, Joseph, will hunt anyone who tries to escape.”_

_“And do what with them?” he asked, already feeling ill._

_The woman arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “There will be a selection of guns in your vehicle. Take care of the problem. Should you need backup, it will be provided, but I trust you four to take care of this yourselves.”_

_Now he felt_ really _sick. He was a bloody schoolteacher – he didn’t have it in him to kill anyone, but especially not some random innocent villager. “If something happens to me while I’m there –if I die – you’ll leave my family alone, right?”_

_“If you die in the service of your country, yes, we will leave you alone,” the woman said. “However, if you run, we will know. I am implanting a tracking chip beneath your skin. It will be removed once your job is done.”_

_There was a pain in his left arm, a phantom of something that hadn’t yet happened in his reality, but the memory worked itself backward._

_“Why us?” Joseph asked, though he knew he probably shouldn’t. “Why four people who aren’t trained for this?”_

_“What you will face out there isn’t human,” she said flatly. “Burn the village, and then ignite the forest. You will not be able to burn the entire thing down on your own, but once we are certain we can breach whatever barrier has been placed around it, we will finish the job for you.”_

Lorna snapped back to reality. “ _Shit_ ,” she hissed, looking at Thranduil. “Get Lord Elrond. This lot’s got something we need to get out, now, and then you and I’ve got to head topside again. Jesus goddamn _Christ_.” She pushed Joseph’s sleeve back, feeling around on his forearm until she found a tiny, alien lump just beneath his skin. “They’ve got trackers on them – we need to get them out and destroy them.”

“Nothing will find them within my halls,” Thranduil said, laying his hand over hers. “Do not fear for that.”

“You can’t _know_ that,” she said, wondering what would happen if she tried to cut the thing out herself. Probably nothing good. “Your halls weren’t built with technology in mind. Look, Thranduil, they’re sending someone out to burn down our bloody forest. You and I between us can probably stop them, but we’ve got to get up there now.”

She took off before he could protest, racing for the kitchen. It was a damn good thing she’d quit smoking, or she would have been totally winded by the time she reached the kitchen.

“I need the Micks,” she said, skidding to a halt just inside the door. “Both’v them. I need their gifts.”

“Why?” her brother asked, setting down a can of Guinness. 

“I think something’s on its way, and it’ll be here soon. Jamie, we’ve got goons, and they’ve got backup. _Bad_ backup. Run to the DMA and tell them the government wants to burn down the bloody forest, and I don’t trust Thranduil not to be a crazy idiot.”

She grabbed her brother’s hand before he could protest, dragging him after her. “You send Drunk Mick topside when you find him,” she called back.

 _Sharley_ , she thought, as she raced for the door, brother firmly in tow. Sharley could help, but there was no guarantee that she _would_. If she thought this was something that had to play out, she’d stand back and let it happen, and there wasn’t a damn thing any of them could do about it.

She was winded anyway by the time they reached the outer door, pulse pounding in her ears, grateful as hell for whatever Lord Elrond had given her. She was probably going to be miserable by the time this was over, but at least she wasn’t starting out that way.

The outside was still clear and quiet; if anything nasty was on the way, it was a long way out. Hopefully it would stay there until she could think of something better than what she’d already got.

“Mick, I need as much greenery as you can grow,” she said, gasping for breath. “ _Very_ green, and hard to burn. If anybody actually walks into the forest, Thranduil can take care’v them, but we’ll both have a hell’v a time if there’s too much above us.”

She released him, trusting him to get to it, hunting for Sharley through the trees. She and Fëanor were not far off; he was examining the roses, which still bloomed in spite of everything. “Sharley, you know what’s coming,” Lorna said, scrambling over rocks and downed limbs. “You have to. Can you help us?”

Those odd, ancient eyes held hers. “I can,” the woman said, faint sorrow in her voice, “but I won’t. This isn’t mine to interfere with.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Lorna said, grimacing. “Can you at least tell me just what’s coming?”

Sharley hesitated. “Fire,” she said. “Fire and bombs.”

“ _Shit_.” What the hell good was Lorna against a bomber? The wall was a stationary object, easily manipulated, but a moving target? She’d pulled down the helicopter, but it had been hovering overhead, not streaking along at an approximation of the speed of sound. If she tried to grab a bloody fighter jet, she’d only actually catch one by accident.

A chilly hand touched her shoulder, and she jumped, whirling to face Sharley. “I shouldn’t tell you this,” the woman said, “but I don’t think it counts as interfering. Use your head.” She tapped Lorna’s temple with her free hand. Other people recoiled when Sharley touched them, but Lorna didn’t feel any need to – yeah, her skin was really cold, but there wasn’t anything horrifying in it.

What the hell did that – _oh_. The panic in Lorna’s chest eased a fraction, because that she could do. The trouble was that she had no idea how far her range stretched, and Thranduil’s forest was, well, a _forest_ , much larger than the stretch everyone always passed through.

She’d do what she could. She had the power, and she knew it; the trick was using it without overloading her own body – which, admittedly, she sucked at.

Brilliant.

Mick had evidently taken her orders to heart, because the patch of roses was spreading at an impressive rate. Green things, fresh things – she’d learned from Gran that green wood was far more difficult to burn. They’d need it, because unfortunately, even after the cleanup, the storm had left far too much very _dry_ fuel in the form of downed limbs.

She breathed in the scent of the forest, moss and wood and earth. This wasn’t going to get torched, goddammit, and she didn’t – she didn’t care what she had to do. Even if it meant killing someone.

Even if it meant killing someone.

That could be examined later, once this had been dealt with. Assuming she was still alive when it was over.

Lorna didn’t hear Thranduil approach, because, well, he was an Elf and she never did, but she _felt_ him. The power he exuded was so cold it burned, even at a distance, and when she looked at him, she froze.

He had been regal with Fëanor, and alien, but this – this was something else entirely. She didn’t even have words for what this was. His pallor had, somehow, gone even whiter, what little color he had leeched from his skin so thoroughly that she could see the faint blue tracery of veins beneath it. His pale hair had always seemed to glow slightly in the sunlight, but there was something…off about it now, off about him, far more so than she’d yet seen. It had been subtle until now, so subtle that there were times she hadn’t been sure she wasn’t just seeing things, but it was screamingly obvious now, so much so that she almost recoiled.

Whoever this was – _whatever_ this was – it wasn’t her husband. But, against anything like a fighter jet, it might be exactly what they needed.

She just hoped like hell it would go away when everything was over.

This not-Thranduil held out his hand to her, and it was all she could do to take it. His skin was as icy as Sharley’s, and Lorna wondered how, and why. It had to be that ring’s doing, if only because nothing else made sense. Just what the hell _was_ that thing, anyway?

 

He was very still, still as he’d been when he faced off with Fëanor, his arctic eyes burning in his pale face. “Still, they seek,” he said, seemingly half to himself. “Still, they would destroy me, though I have done them no harm. All I wish is to live in my forest, with my people, and let the outside world do as it will.” He eyed the ring on his finger, glinting in the sunlight, and dread curled through Lorna. 

“Thranduil…” she said, but trailed off, not know what else to say.

“Firieth Dithen,” he said, those pale, piercing eyes meeting hers, “if these fools do indeed attack our forest – should they be so stupid as to bring fire and violence against us – you and I are going to war.”

“Against what?” she asked, terribly afraid she already knew the answer.

He gave her a smirk that chilled her blood. “Ireland.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, cliffhanger!
> 
> All he wants to do is stay in his forest. That’s it, but you just don’t fuck with Thranduil. You just… _don’t_ – it’s a terrible idea even when he’s sane, and he’s not quite right now. He’s not going to go after people like these poor bastards, who were just unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the Irish government…oh dear. And let’s not forget, Fëanor is (technically) on his side.
> 
> This will not end well.
> 
> Title means “This means war” in Irish. As ever, your reviews give me hope and joy.


	55. Tubaiste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is massively overdue, but I’ve been fighting my goddamn headaches for the last two weeks, and it gave me such hell. The medicine I take for the headaches isn’t a narcotic, but it makes me stupid and sleepy. This chapter’s a bit of a short one, but I thought it best it stand on its own.
> 
> In which Lorna is a tiny rage-monster, Thranduil is completely terrifying, and the entire world is about to find out just what happens when an Elf with one of the three Elven rings loses his shit. (Hint: it ain’t good.)

Fëanor glanced at Sharley with open curiosity. “You not help?”

“I can’t,” she said grimly, eyes trained to the blue sky.

“You are very powerful,” he pointed out.

She looked at him, that odd sorrow deep in her eyes. “That’s _why_ I can’t. I watch, Fëanor, but I can rarely interfere. It’s not safe.”

He pointed at Thranduil. “ _He_ is not safe.”

“He’s safer than I am. Get underground. There’s nothing you can do here, and if Thranduil’s got a problem with it, he can deal with me.”

Fëanor eyed the empty sky, and Thranduil and his wife. “No.”

Sharley glowered at him. “If you die here, I doubt Námo would give you back a second time, and then no redemption for you.”

He started to protest, but she seized the collar of his tunic, bending the full force of her will upon him. Though she was nearly a head shorter than him, in that moment she seemed much taller, her ancient gaze positively molten as her broken fëa flared like a bursting sun.

“ _Get. Inside_ ,” she said, and he felt her voice as much as heard it, her will beating at his, trying desperately to bend it. He would not bend, but for the first time, he properly realized that she could break it. She could break him – he could fight her, but only now was he forced to accept that she would win. One could not defeat such an abomination.

One could not slay that which was already dead.

For the first time in the combined length of his life and death, Fëanor did as he was told.

\--

Lorna herded her brother and Mick the Drunk inside – there was more that could be done, but she didn’t want to risk it. And she wanted them away from Thranduil.

He stared at the sky with unblinking eyes, head tilted slightly as he listened. He’d hear what was coming long before she would, and she had a sinking feeling he wasn’t going to give her a chance to get into anyone’s head.

Wind stirred in the trees, and she glanced around uneasily. He’d said he couldn’t control the weather with that ring, but if he was summoning enough magic, he didn’t have to.

“Careful, allanah,” she said. “You know what Miranda said.”

When he looked at her, she nearly recoiled. “I care not what Miranda said,” he said, and the dissonance between his expression and the near serenity of his voice made Lorna twitch. “I told them that if they returned, I would raze this island into the sea.”

Cold washed through her. “Thranduil, there’s millions’v people here, and it’s not _their_ fault!” She wanted, oh so much, to believe he was bluffing, but Thranduil didn’t bluff. Ever.

“I need not kill them, Firieth Dithen,” he said, to her immense relief. Unfortunately, he followed it up with, “I will merely kill your government.”

Lorna’s first, irrelevant thought was that there were some who wouldn’t mind that, but it was shortly followed by pragmatism. Even more unfortunately, what little eloquence she possessed had deserted her. There would be no dissuading him, not even if she had the words. That would have to wait until after this – whenever _this_ even happened. She’d been in such a tearing hurry that it hadn’t occurred to her that the jets might not be ready to go yet, unless one of those eejits had managed to make contact with their superiors.

She glanced at Sharley. The woman was so still and so tense that Lorna had a feeling she wasn’t wrong – they wouldn’t have long to wait at all.

Anxiety fluttered in her gut like at trapped rat. She was strong and she knew it, but she’d never tried to aim her telepathy at a fast-moving target. Just how far did her range stretch? Could she even reach a mind so far away from her?

Well, she’d find out soon enough. She couldn’t hear anything yet, but she was pretty sure Thranduil could, for the most terrifying smile she had ever seen crept across his face. She tried not to shudder, and failed miserably. The air around him seemed to shiver, tasting weirdly metallic – the power of it thrummed through her, warring with her own.

Lorna sought blindly, casting about for any other minds outside the hall. At first there were none, but then—

 _He was young, this pilot, young but filled with patriotic fervor. She couldn’t get a proper lock on his thoughts, not at this distance, but Christ, there wasn’t any actual_ malice _in him. He genuinely thought he was—_

Lorna winced, losing him. She cast again and caught him, more strongly this time.

 _Land_ , she ordered, forcing her will upon him. Thranduil wouldn’t hesitate to kill him, but she, even now, hesitated to straight-up murder somebody. _Land, and sleep_.

His thoughts stuttered, and she pushed harder. _LAND._

She was at first relieved to feel his will break under hers, until she felt it _keep_ breaking, his mind shattering beneath the strain. It was possibly the most terrible thing she had ever known – and then, in the distance, an explosion.

She had – oh Christ, what had she _done_? She’d pushed him, but she hadn’t even pushed him that hard – was his mind that fragile, or was she that strong? Either way, he was dead, and it was her fault. In trying to save him from Thranduil, she’d killed him herself.

Cold horror passed through Lorna, and it was nearly enough to make her sick. She’d been many things throughout her life, but she’d never _wanted_ to be a killer. She had no qualms at all about hurting people, sometimes quite badly, but actually killing someone…she’d never wanted to sink that low and now she’d probably done it twice – for she doubted the helicopter pilot had made it out of that wreck alive, after the first attack on the forest.

Could she actually do this? Unlike Thranduil, she wasn’t and never had been a warrior. Her gang had not been army, they’d been a bunch of homeless kids who ignored, and were ignored by, the world at large. They weren’t like the adult gangs, with their violent, sometimes deadly turf wards; while they got in their share of fights, it was nowhere near the same level.

And now she’d killed someone, and had to kill more people.

The ugly, vicious side of her stirred in the back of her minds, the temper that was the only legacy of her father. _It_ didn’t understand the concept of remorse, or hesitation, and she’d always tried so very, very hard to subdue it.

 _They’re coming for you_ , it whispered, uncoiling within her mind. _They’ll try to kill you all._

For once, Lorna didn’t fight it. She let it possess her, this facet of her temper – the part she’d always been afraid would murder someone someday. Her doubt, her shock her regret – there was no room for them now, not with the supernova of her wrath flaring in her mind, white-hot and nearly blinding.

She could hear them now, the jets, and she felt the force of her gift tingling in her fingertips, surging through her again. _They were coming for her home_ , and they would not be allowed to leave.

How many jets there were, she didn’t know, but the head of the group (and she hoped like hell it wasn’t a full squadron) was caught in a retina-searing glow, and exploded into a fireball even before it reached the forest, crashing into the field outside.

Two more followed while Lorna blinked, trying to clear her vision. That sure as hell hadn’t been her doing. She looked at Thranduil, but only for a moment before something went streaking overhead –

She caught it before Thranduil could, hurling it upward with all her might. The missile detonated in midair, but neither she nor Thranduil caught the second, which crashed into the forest somewhere far behind them, fire blooming skyward.

Lorna didn’t think – she might have screamed, but if so, she wasn’t aware of it. _Thranduil_ , she said, not trusting herself to speak aloud, _Thranduil, get the fire. Let me deal with these fuckers._

She took off before he could respond, racing toward the edge of the forest, grabbing whatever mind she could along the way. There was absolutely no way she could run a full two miles, but she was damn well going to try.

_They could feel her, these pilots, because she didn’t have anywhere near Von Ratched’s control. It felt odd to them, she realized, alien and unwelcome, and for once she tore without thought or care, dumping the searing heat of her father’s rage right into the core of their beings. She was dimly aware that her breathing was ragged, and painful, lungs and legs burning, but it was so dim that it didn’t slow her down._

__Die, you bastards, _she thought, flooding them with her wrath, and they met her with fear, with confused terror and pain, and oh, Lorna_ reveled _in it._

She pulled out of their minds before they crashed, staggering and gasping, a series of booms and ground-shuddering impacts the result of her handiwork. Jesus, how many were there? Did they actually send a full squadron? She didn’t know how many planes were in a squadron, but it was a lot.

Fuck this. She’d take them all down if it killed her.

\--

Thranduil was filled with a strange mix of serenity and rage. Such a combination should not be possible, yet here he was.

Once upon a time, he’d had a temper that occasionally terrified his subjects, but centuries of isolation had mellowed that, simply because there was nothing for him to be infuriated _at_. Von Ratched had roused it, but only to an extent – only now had the full force of it awakened.

Nenya was the ring of adamant, of water. With it, he could not control the fire that blazed in his forest, but the creek that entered the trees from the fields opened into a river that now led nowhere, draining into the waterfalls scattered throughout his halls. He dragged at it now with the ring, calling it up from its bed, hurling it upward so that it fell like a downpour, hissing when it hit the flames. The few missiles he saw, he blasted at, but there were too many he _didn’t_ see, crashing into the forest and setting it ablaze. 

He could feel Lorna’s wrath tugging at his mind, and it fed his own. Within the bounds of these trees, his ability far outshone hers, but he couldn’t split his consciousness enough to be nearly as effective as she was with her task right now.

The earth shook beneath him with the impact of the planes as they plummeted to the ground, and he bared his teeth in a savage smile. Ireland’s government had doomed itself – he would not rest until he had annihilated it completely.

The water snaked to the sky, up and further up, a glittering wall against which a missile could only explode, harmless as its fiery wreck was engulfed before it could set more of the forest alight. The thrill of it, of so much power, coursed through him, and then –

He lost control of it. Utterly.

His wrath slipped from what little tether it had left, and with it, temporarily, what sanity remained to him.

\--

Sharley wished she could interfere. She really, really did, because this was going to end in total disaster. 

She wanted to, but she didn’t dare. This was going to be bad, but it could easily be much worse, and her interference might make it so. All she could do was curse the fact that she really was, in so many ways, pretty useless. She simply couldn’t do her job.

Wind was rising, softly for now, and she had to resist the impulse to tackle Thranduil like a football player. Lorna was using a great deal of magic herself, but she just wasn’t capable of it on this scale.

Sharley felt the exactly moment Thranduil’s control slipped, and she shut her eyes. He’d sworn he would never _actually_ raze Ireland to the ground, but that was a promise he was about to unintentionally break. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

\--

Even within the DMA, Miranda felt the exact moment everything went to hell.

She’d been hunched over her desk, approving various requisition forms, but her head snapped up when a massive burst of magic shuddered through the entire compound, shivering into her very bones.

“ _Dammit_ , Thranduil,” she snarled, rising. Isolated pockets of magic had been cropping up here and there, if multiple Gifted happened to wake in the same area, but they had nothing on this. The storm Thranduil had caused before had nothing on this.

She stalked through the hallways, scattering people as she went, headed for the Trees. Either they’d handle the surge, or they wouldn’t – the problem was that they have never truly overloaded, and nobody, not even her, knew what would happen if they did. This had only ever happened once before, and the records were all but destroyed.

“Julifer, go find out what that idiot did,” she said, striding into the control room. The Trees were lit up like torches, so bright she had to raise a hand to shield her eyes. Consoles beeped, alarms rang, and the technicians scrambled about like driver ants. One didn’t get to be a technician without the ability to keep a clear head, but this was enough to panic anyone.

Miranda didn’t panic, but there was a horrible sinking feeling in her chest. Something very like lightning arced from Tree to Tree, unable to earth itself in the spindles that lined the walls. The scent of magic, of lightning, filtered through the vents, stinging her sinuses.

Seung, glasses askew, eyed her nervously. “We need—”

“—to shed it,” she said grimly. “I know. Do you have any idea what will happen if I do?”

“A storm, probably,” he said helplessly. “A storm like this planet’s never seen.”

“Christ.” How the hell could she make this decision? Whatever happened, it would be on her. But if the Trees overloaded…

God dammit. She fumbled with the ring of keys at her belt, sorting through them as she approached the center console. Her hands didn’t shake when she inserted the correct key, but only through sheer force of will.

No sooner had she turned the key than searing, blinding brilliance flooded the room, the magic trapped within the Trees roaring as it flooded out into the world.

Miranda blinked, hard, and rubbed her eyes. Nobody said anything – they probably didn’t dare – as she stalked back to her office to retrieve her old military sidearm.

Thranduil had better have a goddamn good explanation for this. Otherwise, she was going to put a bullet right between his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. Congrats, Thranduil, you’ve just fucked up the continent. Well done.
> 
> Title means “Disaster” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with hope and fuzzies.


	56. An Deireadh an Domhain mar Táimid a Fhios dó Tá sé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would not _believe_ how hard this chapter was to write. First there were the headaches, then a sinus infection that’s turned into the cold from hell. I also discovered that if you over-use Flonase, you get a racing heartbeat, jitters, and a persistent fear that you're going to die if you fall asleep. This was a literally one-page-at-a-time chapter, and each was like pulling teeth.

It had been millennia since a surge of magic this intense had rippled across the surface of the Earth, and it had never been magic of this type. The air danced with it, charged as if by static, warring with the background Earth magic released by the storm. The two could not yet coexist; they fought for ascendance, but neither held it for long.

The balance held until the Trees were opened, and the force of Earth’s overrode Thranduil’s through sheer intensity.

The discharge was far too much; it tore at the air, rending it and putting it back together into something wild, something elemental and uncontrollable.

It gathered over the Atlantic first, clouds massing and building upon one another, lightning joining them together with jagged silver veins. The ocean frothed into whitecaps, sculpted by hurricane winds, a rogue wave building beneath the pressure.

Outward they spread, the clouds black as ink as they spilled across the sky, the booming thunder their herald.

\--

The sudden release of such magic knocked Lorna’s feet right out from under her, sending her sprawling onto the ground and completely driving the breath form her. She lay wheezing, a twisted root beneath her ribcage, so disoriented her head swum.

She had to get up, to keep on, but when she tried, her legs gave out and sent her collapsing to the ground again. _Goddammit_. That sure as hell hadn’t been her – what had Thranduil _done_?

Getting to her feet simply didn’t seem to be an option. All she could do was curl into a ball and try to shield her mind, for whatever good _that_ would do. This was simply so huge that she had no real defense against it. It tore at everything she was, unimaginably alien.

Thranduil was a dead man. Her last thought, before darkness took her, was that Thranduil was a dead man.

\--

Sharley, untouched by this magical explosion, pinched the bridge of her nose. Certain things were going to be drastically sped up by this, but she just couldn’t see any place she could safely interfere.

God _dammit_ , Thranduil.

Miranda was on her way, and Miranda might well shoot her, but that was okay. If she thought she could shoot Thranduil, she was destined to be disappointed. Her gift was a formidable one, but not against an Elf.

_“This is gonna end in tears,”_ Layla sighed.

“You have _no idea_ ,” Sharley muttered, leaning against a tree. “And I can’t do shit about it.”

_“You’re not gonna risk it?”_ Jimmy asked.

“Not yet. Thranduil’s broken everything enough already, without me making it worse. Once Miranda calms down, though, we need to make some plans.”

The _problem_ was that in another timeline, the world would have had the threat of Von Ratched as a unifying force – it was the only reason shit hadn’t devolved into World War III. They didn’t have that now – there was no one to unite against.

Absolutely nobody, including herself, was going to like what she had to do now. She strode through the trees, heedless of the howling magic that battered at her. It wasn’t like Thranduil was hard to find – that ring lit him up like a Christmas tree. He seemed completely unaware of what was going on around him – he didn’t seem aware of _anything_ , his pale eyes blank.

“The things I do for this fucking world,” she sighed, as she grabbed Thranduil’s unresisting hand. The ring slipped off his finger surprisingly easily. “I’ll give this back when I’m done with it.”

Somebody had to take the fall for this, until the real big bad showed up. Thranduil was not an evil creature; he’d make a piss-poor villain. She’d try it herself, but she was a shit liar.

She couldn’t play the villain, but she was very good at scaring the shit out of people simply by existing. Hopefully, this goddamn ring would stabilize her own power enough to keep her from entirely fucking things up when she actually got a chance to try to change things.

She hoped Fëanor wasn’t averse to traveling, because they were going to be doing a lot of it. He was fairly terrifyingly intense himself, but he was also very pretty, and humans responded well to beauty. Moreover, he was _alive_ , and thus easier for the living to deal with.

With a sigh, Sharley headed back to the halls, nearly running into a murderous Miranda on her way out. “I’m on it,” she said, before the livid woman could speak. “Start expanding the DMA. You’re gonna need the space.”

Miranda blinked at her, and Sharley could practically hear the shift of her mental gears. “How bad?” she asked.

“Bad enough,” Sharley sighed. “You worry about your people – I’ll do what I can with everyone else.” She patted the other woman’s shoulder, which of course made her flinch.

“God _dammit_ , Sharley. All right. But if this goes to hell, it’s on you,” Miranda said, glowering at her.

“No, it’s on Thranduil,” Sharley said, unperturbed. “But he can’t fix it.”

“Why do you have his ring?” Miranda asked, eying it.

Sharley snorted. “He’s done enough damage with it. He’s gonna be pissed when he comes to and doesn’t have it. Good luck.”

“ _He’s_ the one who’ll need good luck,” Miranda growled.

“Don’t shoot him anywhere vital. I’ll be in touch.”

\--

Miranda was more than tempted to shoot Thranduil somewhere _very_ vital. There was so much magic in the air it made her teeth ache, dancing over her skin. If there was any precedent for this bullshit, the records had long since been lost.

She stomped through the forest, the scent of smoke and wet, charred wood assailing her. Whatever had been on fire was out now, the ground a soupy, muddy mess that sucked at her combat boots.

Lord Thranduil stood in a trance, perfectly dry in spite of the swamp around him, tall and ancient and faintly radiant, and oh, her trigger finger itched.

“Snap the fuck out of it, you son of a bitch,” she snarled, infusing the words with every ounce of her gift. She’d never yet met a human she couldn’t verbally compel, but she didn’t know if it would work with Elves. Christ, she wished he’d never met Lorna – that he’d let her wander out of his forest on her own.

He blinked, and looked at her, but she doubted her gift had anything to do with it. The lights were on in his pale eyes, but he wasn’t home. They were nearly vacant, and almost serene, his mind obviously still unaware of just what disaster he’d set in motion.

Miranda snapped her fingers in front of his face, and drew no reaction. She tried it again, with a similar lack of result. Fury stabbed through her, and she pistol-whipped him as hard as she could.

_That_ brought him back with a vengeance, ice and murder rising in his eyes.

“Look around you,” she ordered, before he could say or do anything. “ _Look at what you did, you fucker_.”

Maybe her gift had some effect on him after all, for look he did. His complexion didn’t have much color to begin with, but it drained of what little it had. She could feel the magical chaos churning through the atmosphere, so it had to be exponentially worse for him.

Still he said nothing, but really, what was there _to_ say? He’d fucked up, and he’d done it royally, no pun intended. And he had to know there was fuck-all he could do about it now.

“How bad?” he asked, unknowingly echoing her. The butt of her gun had gouged him above his left eyebrow, blood seeping sluggishly from the mark.

“We don’t know yet,” Miranda said steadily, reining in her fury. “Unless I’m mistaken, it’s worse than anything this world’s ever seen.”

“Where is my ring?” he asked, eying his left hand. He still looked somewhat dazed, though that might have been the blow to the head.

“Sharley took it. She says she’s got work to do,” Miranda said.

“She cannot use it,” Thranduil said, irritation crossing his expression.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Miranda said. “There’s a lot about Sharley even I don’t know. Maybe she can’t use it the same way you do, but that doesn’t mean she can’t do _something_ with it.” Her hand twitched, her trigger finger itchier than ever. “Now get your wife and get underground. Nothing’s attacking you anymore, but I’m pretty sure the atmosphere’s gonna attack _everyone_ soon enough.”

She spun on her heel before he could respond, sloshing back toward the halls. She wouldn’t admit it to a soul, but beneath her anger, her determination, she was fucking terrified. Miranda had always prided herself on having a contingency plan for everything, up to and including a zombie apocalypse, but she had no plan for this. She didn’t yet know what ‘this’ even was, but she was grimly certain of one thing.

The DMA would not be able to be a secret much longer.

\--

When Lorna woke, the first thing she did was sick up all over the ground. Her head swum, sparkles dancing before her eyes, stomach roiling.

What the fuck?

She tried to stand, but just like earlier, it proved to be a mistake – she didn’t even make it all the way upright before she collapsed again, though at least she missed her puddle of sick. Wiping her nose, her hand came away red _again_ , goddammit.

Head buzzing, she rolled onto her back, staring up at the hazy sky through the boughs. She didn’t know what the hell had happened, but it was like a sledgehammer to the brain.

_God dammit, Thranduil_ , she thought, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. Whatever he’d done, he’d best know how to undo it. Something very like static danced over her skin, a sensation that was weird as hell but not entirely unpleasant. She wiped her nose again, and wondered if it was worth trying to move yet. Probably not.

Lorna didn’t hear Thranduil approach, because he was a goddamn sneaky ninja, but she felt him. Rolling onto her side, she gave him a bleary glare. “What the _hell_ did you do?”

He looked like hell, so pale he was nearly grey, his eyes stricken. Whatever it was, he obviously hadn’t done it on purpose. “I…am not sure,” he said, and she had never, _ever_ heard him sound so uncertain. Thranduil had always been so sure of himself that it occasionally bordered on outright arrogance – to see him like this was just _wrong_. He knelt beside her, wiping her nose with his sleeve. “Have I harmed you?”

“I think it just knocked me out,” she said, grimacing. “Help me up, would you?”

He lifted her rather than help her, and he looked so troubled that she didn’t fight him over it. Was this what shock looked like in Elves? When she touched his face, she found his skin was downright chilly. Checking his pulse wouldn’t do her any good, since she didn’t know what was normal for an Elf _or_ a human.

“Thranduil, what the hell do we do now?” she asked, hating the tremor in her voice.

“Wait,” he sighed, “and see what disaster I have wrought.”

\--

The clouds spread swiftly, obscuring the sky with a dozen shades of bruise before reaching complete darkness. The wind howled, feeding off itself, dragging the ocean in great waves that rolled toward every shore around the Atlantic, ready to swamp everything in their path, the thunder echoing from crest to crest.

\--

In the DMA’s meteorological room, Julifer eyed the screens and chewed her lower lip. 

She’d sent a warning out to all their agents in the outside world, but few of those held anything like high positions in various governments around the globe; there wasn’t a great deal they could do without revealing themselves.

The ever-growing red blob on the screen was centered over the Atlantic, but its spread was uneven. Northern Africa was probably going to get hit first, although not by much; western Europe wouldn’t be far behind.

The hot saltiness of blood filled her mouth, and she grimaced. She knew Miranda would murder her if she asked all their agents to reveal themselves, but maybe they didn’t have to.

Miranda was and always would be a military woman at heart, with a need for procedure and whatever order could actually be imposed upon the DMA. Julifer was…not. This idea would probably cause chaos in the outside world, but not as much as letting this storm hit everywhere unaware would. Other satellites would pick up on this any minute, if they hadn’t already, but information took time to trickle down to the civilian population – especially since this was going to look like the glitch from hell to any sane person. Maybe they needed to cut out the middle man.

It had to look natural, or people wouldn’t believe it, but every country that actually had a weather bureau was about to get hacked. People needed to get away from the coasts while they had a chance.

“Do you have any idea what kind of chaos that will cause?” Shivshankari asked, glowering at her.

“What, I should just let them sit there with no warning?” Julifer shot back. “We need to tell them, and I need to talk to Miranda.”

“So she can murder you for this?”

“Murder her for what?” Miranda demanded, stalking into the room. She certainly looked more than ready to shoot someone.

“Hacking the global news feed to warn everyone about the storm,” Shivshankari said flatly.

Miranda set her sidearm on the desk with a _thunk_. “Do it,” she ordered. “And open all the Doors. We’re gonna pack this place like a damn tin of sardines.”

Julifer and Shivshankari stared at her, wide-eyed. The Gifted had kept the DMA a secret for a reason, careful to ensure no one in the outside world even _knew_ about it for centuries. Oh, the people of Lasgaelen knew now, but they were a somewhat special circumstance. Letting in tens of thousands of normals was a _terrible_ idea – God knew there were thousands of things they could break, even if they weren’t trying.

But there was no point at all in arguing with Miranda, and she wouldn’t be doing this just for shits and giggles. No matter how weird her decisions were, there was always a method to her madness.

“This’ll end horribly,” Julifer warned, even as she reached for the nearest phone

“Not it won’t,” Miranda said, her eyes blazing like blue fire. “I won’t let it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, that was too damn hard. Fortunately, I’m well into the next chapter, so hopefully it won’t take nearly as long as this one did.
> 
> Title means “The end of the world as we know it” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with light and love.


	57. Cuimhní

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the shit hits the fan, Sharley and Fëanor have all sorts of fun in the Other, and the DMA opens its doors.

The Lady watched Earth, and shook her head.

Thranduil had upset things so badly already, and now this. The world had not yet been ready for the return of magic to begin with, and certainly not in this amount at once. The people of Earth should have had seven years to get used to the idea, before having _this_ dumped on them. They were not prepared for it, and they were definitely not prepared for Thorvald.

It was not within her power to kill him, or she would have done it long ago. Von Ratched had held the only weapon capable of the job – Lorna needed it now. Even had Von Ratched lived in this present, he would not have had the impetus to fight Thorvald that he would have possessed in another timeline; unhealthy though his attachment to Lorna would have been, it would have given him motivation.

No, the Lady could not kill Thorvald, but she would keep him imprisoned as long as she was able. The rest, in the immediate, was up to Sharley.

\--

Sharley had something she needed to do, before she could move on to anything else. She probably wasn’t going to have time later.

It would be about ten hours before the storm would reach Kirk, but the little village was right beside the ocean, and she wasn’t going to leave its people to be washed away. This entire mess was Thranduil’s fault; he could handle an extra three hundred people.

Granted, she’d have to get them all through the Other first, and that wouldn’t be easy. Fortunately, she had Fëanor, who would probably enjoy the hell out of it if something attacked them.

It was with that thought in mind that she stole him a sword from Thranduil’s armory. She had no need of one herself, which was just as well, since she’d never held a sword in her life.

“We’ve got a ways to walk, in the Other,” she said, pantomiming walking with her fingers. She didn’t know if he even needed the pantomime much anymore, but better safe than sorry. “Stay alert.”

He looked positively insulted at the implication that he ever did otherwise, and she very nearly smiled in spite of everything. She _did_ smile when he grimaced as she took his hand.

Each point in the Other touched somewhere on Earth, though thankfully one had to travel a much shorter distance to reach another than they’d need on Earth. It was dangerous on the ground, however, and a group as large as the population of Kirk would attract every nasty within a ten-mile radius. Fortunately, Kirk was full of hunters, so at least they’d probably have plenty of guns between them.

The atmosphere was going to be a problem for them, though. They had to pass close to the Edge of the Real, where the air was thinner; it wouldn’t give Fëanor any trouble, but there was more than one reason most of the Other’s human population stayed away from the Edge.

Fëanor grimaced again as soon as he breathed in the Other’s dry, metallic air. It had been noticeable to her when she was alive, so it must be awful to his Elf senses.

It was quite early in the morning here, the sky still largely dark, without even the faintest hint of a breeze. When last they’d passed through here, she’d taken the long way, diverting around Old Echo rather than leading Fëanor through it, but they didn’t have time for that now. Given his history, she was hoping he could handle the place, but she couldn’t be sure. He had faced Balrogs, but he had never faced the Memories.

They stood now outside the town, as empty and dead as it had been for the last four hundred years. Old as it was, it wouldn’t have been out-of-pace in the American Midwest in the 1940’s or so, the buildings square and sturdy. Why? Sharley had no idea. Time in this place had been screwy as hell even before the War.

“Stay with me,” she said, holding Fëanor’s gaze. “Whatever you see, don’t talk to it, don’t look at it, and _don’t_ try to fight it. This town is where I died, and what killed me is still here.”

His grey eyes flicked over Old Echo, unimpressed. They weren’t close enough yet – he’d feel the Memories soon enough, and she could only hope he would heed her warming. “What is here?”

“Memories,” she said, and drew her index finger along the scars on her left arm. “They did this. You can’t fight them, Fëanor. They’ll always win. Stay on the main road with me – it’s safer there.” Theoretically, the Memories couldn’t attack anyone on the main road – though they _had_ attacked _her_ the day she died. She wasn’t going to mention that.

“Memories?” he repeated, and she realized he probably didn’t know what the English word meant.

“If we aren’t lucky you’ll see them,” Sharley said. “Whatever you do, don’t draw your sword. I’m not sure what’ll happen if you do, and I’d rather not find out.” She wasn’t sure just how much of that he’d take in, since pantomime would only get her so far in this case.

He muttered something in what she suspected was Quenya, but nodded. Hopefully his will would see him through the down alive.

\--

Fëanor did not fear this odd, empty town, but it did unsettle him. He had seen no sign of civilization during his earlier trips, and it was jarring now. It was different from Kirk and Lasgaelen, though he could not yet have said how.

Whatever had emptied it of its people had left little sign; no battle had taken place here. The town sat suspended in time, covered in dust that might well have stood undisturbed for decades. The road leading into it had once been as smooth as any Edain road in Ennor, but it was heaved and buckled, as if by some tremendous wrenching of the earth – and yet the buildings stood undamaged.

Curious.

The dust, dry and bitter, stung in his nose as they walked, both their footfalls silent. Never had he encountered a place so very silent – there had been no rustle of animals in the grass or trees, not on either of his trips through the accursed place. It was a world dying by slow degrees, and he did not know how anyone could bear to live here.

The little town had likely once been a pleasant place, more so than the harshness of Kirk. The skeletons of ornamental trees lined the empty streets, dry and brown now. Surprisingly, there were cars, though they little resembled those he had seen on Ennor – larger than most, and strangely rounded. They too were coated in dust, frosted tires rotted away. Just how long had this place sat abandoned? Sharley found it unsettling – and justifiably, if she’d died here – but Fëanor at first though it oddly tragic. Edain lives were fleeting, so easily snuffed, and yet they left monuments. The stonework of the buildings was unlovely, but as precise as any of the Eldar might build.

The silence, that _was_ a little unnerving, lying heavy as a blanket over everything. Somehow, the quality of it was different than that of the rest of the Other, thickening the air. An Edain might well have found breathing difficult, and even he found it strangely oppressive. 

He glanced at Sharley, and found her pale profile tense, her eyes darting over everything. What would it be like, to return to the place where you died? Even he had some difficulty imagining _that_.

As they trod deeper into the town, he abruptly felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, unease prickling over his skin. Someone or something was watching them, unseen. There was no sign of any save themselves, but the weight of that stare was almost palpable. He did not know what the word ‘memories’ meant, for he had not heard it spoken before, but his mind conjured visions of orcs and wraiths. Anything larger could not hide here.

He said nothing to Sharley as they trod onward through the silence, the sky lightening by slow degrees. Unless and until it showed itself, there was nothing they could do –

Quite abruptly, a strange, alien feeling stole through him, seizing his heart in claws of ice. The dust-filmed windows seemed suddenly like eyes themselves, milky cataracts obscuring the eyes of the undead. His heart raced, pulse thrumming in his throat, skin crawling.

He glanced again at Sharley; every line of her was taut with tension. She looked at him and shook her head, pressing a finger to her lips in a gesture that ordered silence. For once, he had no desire to speak, lest he draw further attention from whatever lurked in these seemingly empty streets and buildings. Was this what fear, true fear, felt like? Had he been lesser, it might have paralyzed him. Not even the balrogs had made him feel thus.

The first to step out of one yawning doorway startled him. It looked Edain, but it moved without sound – and jarringly, horribly, it had no fëa.

A woman it was, or should be, had once been, short and golden-haired, in a simple, loose dress of pale pink that stopped halfway down her shins. She would have looked in fine health if she had actually had a fëa, but as it was, she might well have been a mobile statue, lifeless and cold.

A _hostile_ mobile statue. Her eyes, crystal-blue, were flat and malevolent, and they watched him specifically, watched with a naked hunger that sent a shudder through him.

What foul magic had created this thing? It was no orc, no balrog, no wraith such as he had ever seen. It did not move; it only stared with those hateful eyes, an even bigger affront to reality than Sharley, monstrous and wholly unnatural.

Another appeared, and another still, emerging from empty corners, from dusty doorways. Edain in form, all of them, and none with a fëa, but all had those terrible, staring eyes. The red light of the Other rendered them in shades of amber, which somehow only made the effect worse.

Sharley tensed, and then froze. “ _Shit_.”

Fëanor did not at first understand why she had – not until one of the things stepped out of the door to a brick building that might once have been an inn. A tiny child stood there, a little girl with white-gold hair and mismatched eyes, hostile as all the others. 

A small, wounded sound left the real Sharley’s throat, and Fëanor looked at her. “When someone dies here,” she said, her voice hoarse, “it makes a Memory. A new one.”

He did not understand all of her words themselves, but he took their meaning. The girl had been her child.

Empathy was not something Fëanor was acquainted with, and even he knew he had been an abysmal father, but to lose a child so young…and Sharley had likely seen her die. It was a horror he could barely comprehend, and it was enough to temporarily jar him out of his dread.

He could not bring himself to touch her, not even in comfort. She was too horrifying a creature herself. “Do not look,” he said – the only thing he could say, however inadequate it might be. He knew what he would feel, should such a sight greet him, and it was something he would wish upon a very few.

She swallowed, but nodded a fraction, and they continued onward through the heat and stifling air. For whatever reason, the Memories made no move to intercept them. Why? How did they kill people, if they stayed as they were?

It was not a question he wanted answered while in the midst of them, while caught in the grip of this strange dread. The hunger of these creatures was a palpable thing, a pall thick and heavy as lead, settling over his limbs. Though his terror kept him on edge, Fëanor felt strangely, profoundly weary, each step forward becoming greater and greater effort. 

Sharley touched his hand, and the sheer revulsion of it roused him, cutting through the pall. “Don’t,” she said – a word he had come to know quite well during the short time of their association. “Think of your light bulbs.”

Somehow, he managed to glower at her. He tried to yank his hand away, but her fingers closed over his like a very chilly vice.

“ _Focus_ ,” she said. “We’re only halfway through.” 

He didn’t fully understand her words, but he knew they meant nothing good.

\--

Thranduil looked so far beyond stricken that Lorna really didn’t know what to do.

He was ancient, and he’d seen many terrible things, but she didn’t think he’d actually _caused_ any of them. He needed to snap out of it, but she had no idea how to do it. Not when she felt so ill herself.

“You couldn’t’ve known this would happen,” she said, her voice a rasp. She needed him to know that, whoever else might blame him, _she_ didn’t. “What else were you meant to do? Let those bastards burn down our forest?”

“I knew,” he said tonelessly. “I knew I had nothing near true control of this ring. There is a reason I was never entrusted with any of the Three.”

What the hell could she say to _that_? She had no idea, so she said nothing.

“According to Miranda, I may well have doomed much of the world,” he sighed. “The forest is not worth that.”

Lorna winced. There was nothing she could say to _that_ , either, but she had to try. “Whatever it is, it’s started, so let’s just go forward, okay? No kicking yourself.” 

To that he gave no response, his stare so hollow she wondered if he’d even heard her. Even if she’d had more than the eloquence of a brick, she doubted she could help much. Just now, nothing might comfort him.

Her head spun, and she shut her eyes, wiping at her damned bloody nose. She didn’t open them again until they’d passed through the door to the caverns, resolved. Yeah, this might be Thranduil’s fault, but anyone who gave out at him over it was going to get her boot up their arse. He’d fucked up, but he hadn’t done it on purpose, and anybody trying to rip him a new one over it wouldn’t help a damn thing.

 _I’m with you, allanah_ , she sent him. _Whatever anyone else says or does,_ I’m with you, _and don’t you ever doubt that for a moment_. If the DMA decided to turn on him over this, they could go fuck themselves. She’d brick up that bloody Door herself if she had to.

He still said nothing, but briefly rested his cheek on top of her head. When he finally did speak, he said, “We must go to the DMA.”

“Why?” Lorna couldn’t imagine what good they’d do – they’d probably only be in the way.

“I have little doubt they will seek more of your kind, to shield them from what I have done,” he said, descending the steps. “They simply do not have the space for many more, but we do. These caverns could hold some ten thousand comfortably, but we could double that number if we were willing to live elbow to elbow. We must, however, fine some way to _feed_ them.” Already he sounded more self-possessed, more like _Thranduil_. Even something this dire, it seemed, couldn’t shake him for long.

“How in bloody fuck’re we to do that?” Lorna asked. Running her tongue over her teeth, she realized she’d chipped one when she’d so ingloriously landed on her face. Lovely.

“Once upon a time, I would have said lembas,” he said, shifting her a little in his arms, “but not all of the ingredients needed now exist. It is a problem we cannot solve alone, and I think Miranda may prove disinclined to help unless we can assure her we will care for these people.”

“Brilliant,” Lorna muttered – and passed out. Again.

\--

Fëanor had had quite enough of this ‘fear’ by now, but evidently it hadn’t had enough of him. It sat leaden in his stomach while they walked the gauntlet of those eyes. The Memories stood still, all save one – the thing that looked like Sharley’s daughter. _It_ kept pace with them at the edge of the road, silent and malevolent. 

Sharley resolutely refused to look at it, her odd eyes trained straight ahead, striding grim and silent. They moved swiftly, and were very nearly through the town when one of the things stepped out into the road, standing on the faded yellow line at the center. Fëanor froze, and so did Sharley, for the creature they faced was her duplicate.

Somehow, it was the most horrible of them all, for it was Sharley, and yet not. Though it too bore scars, they were fainter, older, its skin tanned rather than death-pallid, but it’s _eyes_ …they were by far the worst he had yet seen, for there was more than instinct, more than mere hunger behind them.

“You. Have brought us. Something,” it said, the words awkward and stilted, and the voice, that was _not_ Sharley’s – higher, smoother, almost childlike.

“No, I haven’t,” the real Sharley said. “We’re passing through, and you’re getting the fuck outta our way. You can’t hurt me, and I won’t let you hurt him.”

Fëanor understood some of that – enough that he was, in spite of everything, quite insulted she would insinuate that he needed protecting. Yes, he was facing creatures he had never before seen, but _still._ He was not some green, untested warrior; he was Fëanor, son of Finwë, slayer of balrogs.

“But he. Is. So alive,” the Sharley-thing said, stepping toward them on silent feet.

“And he’s gonna stay that way,” the real Sharley retorted. “Fëanor,” she added, so softly even his Elven ears could scarcely hear her, “when I say ‘run’, _run_.”

The thought was absolutely appalling. Never once had he fled from a fight, and he would not do so now. He would rather die here than be so craven, so he kept his face blank, pretending he did not understand her. Let these things tear him apart, as they had done to her – while it might not be the most noble of deaths, it was nobler than fleeing like a coward.

At his lack of response, she turned to look at him, and he very nearly recoiled. This was not Sharley-the-Memory, but it was not _Sharley_ , either – her eyes were cold, impassive, and downright ancient, her expression as animated as a statue’s. Even the quality of her stillness had changed.

“Run,” she – it – said, and it was a command he doubted few could disobey. He, however, was one of those few; though the compulsion in her tone was nearly irresistible, it was only nearly.

“No,” he said, and against her warning – possibly against all common sense – he drew his sword.

The effect upon the Memories was galvanic, and he immediately regretted the action. They moved silent as wraiths, and as swift, closing in on them, hands reaching and clawing.

Sharley, or whatever had possession of her, seized his arm and yanked him after her with a strength he had not known she possessed. He tried to jerk away, to stand and fight as a warrior should – until something sharp as the finest of blades sliced into his shoulder, the cut so clean he at first didn’t feel it. Only the wet heat of blood alerted him to the injury, and then came another, this from the nape of his neck down to the middle of his back, narrowly missing his spine.

“ _Run_ ,” she demanded, but still he would not yield. He turned, bringing his sword to bear on the Memory that had attacked him –

The blade, the Elven blade that ought to have been unbreakable, shattered. The fragments fell to the ground like rain, the soft sound of their falling unnaturally loud in the heavy silence.

For the briefest of moments, Fëanor stared in shock, but he managed to dodge the Memory’s clawing hand. Perhaps blades were useless, but these creatures were still susceptible to a kick in the gut – the thing staggered backwards into its advancing brethren, and Fëanor did exactly what he’d sworn he would never do. Retreat he did, dragged along by Sharley, expertly dodging the grasp of those razor-tipped hands. Whatever passed for their fingernails was sharper than diamond, rending skin as easily as the lightest of fabrics.

He wished, someday, to come back here. He wished to come armed with whatever weapons he could lay hands on, and make this monstrosities pay for forcing him to retreat. There had to be something, somewhere, that could kill them.

\--

By the time Thranduil and Lorna reached the Door to the DMA, she was awake, and he was one again in full possession of himself.

He’d tried to drop her off with Elrond, but she was having hone of it: she was not, so she said, going to let him face the DMA alone. That he rather deserved whatever they might throw at him mattered nothing to her.

“Did I or did I not say I was with you?” she demanded, wiping her nose. “There’s no point leaving me here. I’ll just dragoon one’v the lads into giving me a piggy-back ride.”

He knew her well enough to know it was not an idle threat, so take her with him he did. That Lorna did not blame him for this fiasco meant much to him, though she ought to have. As he’d said, it would seem there really was a reason he had never been given one of the Three.

“Oi, stop it,” she said, glowering at him. “Go forward. Don’t look back. Motto’v my bloody life for years, and it served me well.”

That was, at the moment, more than he could do, but he would master it in time. He had made a mess, and he would clean it up, to whatever degree he could. He was still, after all, after everything, a king.

The DMA was a disaster, people hurrying hither and yon, and yet, as with the first storm, they all moved with purpose. It appeared chaos on the surface, but it was not. How there could be such method to this madness, Thranduil didn’t know, but method there was. The crowds automatically parted before him, and closed again seamlessly behind him, intent on their tasks.

“You can put me down now, allanah,” Lorna said, drawing her knees up against her chest in an effort to avoid kicking anyone along the way.

“No,” he said. “I do not wish you to be stepped on.”

She grumbled, but didn’t protest, apparently conceding his point. Her nose had stopped bleeding, thank Eru, but there was dried blood on her face, lingering over her chin and jaw, mingling with dirt and dried sweat. She looked like a tiny nightmare, her face so ashy she could have passed for one of the zombies she was so fond of. Should he allow her to walk, he suspected she might move like one as well. He only hoped she would remain conscious.

\--

None of the Doors opened into any large cities. Many opened into the middle of absolutely nowhere, but for the first time in DMA history, all were open at once.

The storm had yet to make landfall anywhere, but that wouldn’t last. Their technopaths had dutifully hacked news feeds all over the world, and now the DMA sent its people out in force.

Miranda knew they weren’t likely to persuade people by reason alone, and she didn’t wonder why – she wouldn’t follow some random stranger, either. She was not, however, the only person with the gift of compulsion; the rest had been sent out into the world, along with every empath and aura-manipulator they had. Yes, it was cheating, but if it kept people alive, they could damn well sue her later. At least they’d be alive to do it.

She was currently in the meteorology room, pacing like a caged tiger and watching the growing blob of the storm on the screen. While she’d wanted to go out into it herself, she was technically in charge of this circus, and they’d need her gift to keep everyone calm when they got here. As terrible as it was going to be getting them here, it would be even worse once the effects of the empaths and aura-manipulators wore off, and they were stuck with a load of very confused, likely very angry people. Even most of the Gifted out there had no idea the DMA existed, and as for the normals…this was going to suck.

It sucked even worse when her current least favorite person came striding in. Were it not for Thranduil’s armful of Lorna, Miranda might have decked him – or tried to, at least. She really doubted it would do any good when he was actually aware of his surroundings. Still, even the attempt would have felt nice.

“I can help you,” he said, without preamble, “but you must also help me.”

“And why the _hell_ would I do that?” she demanded, eying Lorna, who looked ready to keel over at any moment.

“Because I can take in people you cannot,” he said, “but I cannot feed them. You simply do not have enough space, Mistress Miranda, but I do. You have seen my halls.”

She had, and though the thought of working with him at all severely pissed her off. Miranda, however, was above all things pragmatic; she couldn’t ignore his offer. Not when they had such dire need of it. Where she was to get that kind of _food_ , she didn’t know – the DMA kept a vast stockpile of emergency rations, but they were meant to sustain the original population, not tens of thousands of refugees.

“Fine,” she snapped. “But you and I aren’t done.”

Lorna’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even,” she warned. “Yeah, he fucked up, but you know what we’re going to do? We’re going to deal with it. We’re _not_ going to take any frustrations out on a certain Drag Queen Barbie here.”

That actually gave Miranda pause, breaking through her simmering anger. “ _What?_ ” she asked.

“Drag Queen Barbie,” Lorna said, giving her husband an unreadable look. “He wears dresses, he’s got long blond hair, and while he might have buggered everything up, he didn’t do it on purpose, so let’s just move on, shall we?” She gave Miranda a bright, expectant look, an edge of steel in her eyes.

Miranda stared at her. The woman threw a wrench in her fury, simply by dint of being so very ridiculous. “Later,” she said, refusing to budge on it. “We’ve got work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Fëanor’s not going to voluntarily run away – not even from the Memories. (Incidentally, we have not actually seen the last of Memory!Sharley. In none of my fics have I yet used any of the actual Memories spawned in the Other, but now…oh, now.)
> 
> This was yet another chapter that took me absolutely forever. I kicked the sinus infection just in time to get another goddamn cold, bleh. Title means “Memories” in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with life and joy.


	58. Bóthar Trodaí

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, I got a chapter out in ten days rather than twenty. What a beast of a chapter it is, too.
> 
> In which Lorna can’t stay conscious (hooray for head wounds), Sharley and Fëanor nab the people of Kirk (and he is of no help at all), the people of Wicklow reenact _The Road Warrior_ on the M7 (which Thranduil does not enjoy. At all.), and one of the Memories wants to eat Fëanor so much that she’s hunting a way out of Old Echo.
> 
> So, I’ve gone back through this fic and changed Thranduil’s nickname for Lorna from “Dilthen Ettelëa” to “Firieth Dithen.” Why? Because what I didn’t realize when I wrote _Ettelëa_ is that the word is in Quenya, not Sindarin; coming from a Sindar like Thranduil, it would be an insult as much as a nickname. That makes sense in _Ettelëa_ itself, given the circumstances of their relationship for the first forty-three chapters; rather like Drag Queen Barbie, it’s easily a pejorative-turned-endearment. In _Into the Woods_ , however, they don’t start off antagonistic, so him tossing an insulting nickname at her makes no sense. “Firieth Dithen” means “tiny woman”, which makes quite a bit of sense and isn’t an insult. [AnnElspethRaven](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnEllspethRaven/pseuds/AnnEllspethRaven) discovered that one for me, or I would have had no idea.

Miranda didn’t want to send Thranduil out into the world, and even Lorna realized it was a terrible idea.

 

“Allanah, what d’you think you’re going to do?” she asked. “Even in your human clothes, you’re bloody intimidating. People aren’t likely to follow you willingly, and you can’t do your mental voodoo outside your forest.” She paused. “ _I_ can, though.”

“ _No_ ,” he and Miranda said at once.

Lorna narrowed her eyes. There were times she was willing to be told ‘no’, but this was not one of them. She was tired and she hurt all over, but when the hell had that ever stopped her? She might not have managed to kill Von Ratched, but she _had_ locked him out of her head -- she was stronger now than she had been.

“Yes,” she said flatly. “Miranda, are you really not going to use everything you’ve got?”

The woman looked torn, glancing from the meteorology screen to Lorna, who dared a glimpse of her mind. Yes, Miranda wanted to use her, but didn’t want her to risk her killing herself in the process.

“I’ll be fine,” Lorna said, on the basis of absolutely nothing. “If I don’t at least try, I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

“Lorna, if you go out there, I am going with you,” Thranduil said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “I will not leave you to face whatever lies outside alone. You do not yet know how well you can use both facets of your gift at once -- I will keep you safe, so you need not find out in such dire circumstances.”

He had a point, damn him. And honestly, if their positions were reversed, she wouldn’t let him go alone, either.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you get yourself shot, I’ll never forgive you.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Fair enough.”

“You’re both gonna die,” Miranda said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Your faith in us is heartwarming, Mistress Miranda,” Thranduil said dryly. “Should we die, I will endeavor to haunt you to the best of my ability.”

Lorna was pretty sure that wasn’t how Elf souls worked, but whatever. Miranda didn’t need to know that. “Shall we?” she asked, doing her best to mimic his accent.

“Both of you, get the fuck out,” Miranda sighed.  
\--  
Despite being injured and bleeding freely, Fëanor still resented being dragged out of the town. The Sharley-thing only halted at the very border, watching him intently, and now, only now, did he shudder. It really was worse than all the others, and not only because it was a duplicate of one he knew.

He knew not what it was -- what they were -- but he did know one thing: someday, somehow, he would destroy them all. It might take him decades or even centuries, but he would rid this already accursed world of their presence.

The real Sharley, who seemed to be herself again, sighed. “That’s why we go around Old Echo. Congrats. You’re one of a very few who’ve made it out alive.”

“We go back?” he asked, and it was half-question, half-demand.

Sharley snorted. “Fuck no. We’re going around.”

“Later,” he said. “When all is over, we go back.”

She shook her head, saying nothing, but Fëanor would find his way back, one way or another. Perhaps he would die in his attempt, but an attempt he would make, and he would damn well succeed.

\--

Lorna and Thranduil took a borrowed motorcycle out through the Wicklow Door, headed first for that town itself. Dublin already had DMA agents, and it would be easier to get the population through if the intervening cities emptied first. Ireland was too small for even the interior to weather the storm entirely safely -- they had to evacuate the entire island. They weren’t, however, meant to drag everyone into the DMA and keep them there: a number would be sent inland, far from the coasts. They’d still be dealing with hell, but at least they wouldn’t get washed away and drown.

The storm hadn’t yet made landfall, but even Lorna, with her human senses, could feel how far the pressure had already fallen. They had a little time, but she doubted it was very much.

The magic-tingle was stronger now, prickling on her face, and she wondered why she was not more afraid. Oh, she _was_ afraid, but she ought to have been cripplingly terrified. It was the only sane reaction to this… _this_.

And yet she wasn’t. The strength of her gift stirred within her, banishing her weariness for now -- she’d pay for it later, she knew, and probably with interest, but she was alive, and she was powerful, more than just the aching body that would likely be a collection of bruises by tomorrow. She was about to give her gift a run for its bloody money, and the thought was more exciting than it should be, given the circumstances.

There wasn’t too much traffic on the motorway yet, and she wondered how bad it was going to get once all the DMA squads started bringing people in. Was the Wicklow Door the only one in Ireland? Christ, she hoped not, or they were going to be making a disaster all on their own.

The bike’s engine revved as she sped up, passing a mostly empty city bus. Thranduil’s arm tightened fractionally around her waist, but he didn’t otherwise tense. He would probably never like motorcycles, but he might be getting used to riding them.

She could feel the press of his guilt against her mind, though she could tell he was trying to subsume it. It wasn’t something she could allay, however much she wanted to -- he really _had_ fucked up, and he was just going to have to learn to live with it. Lorna would help him, if she could, but in the end it would be down to him. All she could do would be to remind him that she was still here, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

Though she couldn’t hear it over the roar of the engine, wind was stirring in the trees at the edge of the motorway, bare branches thrashing. It was affecting her steering, too; at his height, Thranduil was creating an unfortunately effective drag. For now, it was nothing she couldn’t handle, and she prayed it stayed that way.

 _Allanah, where is it?_ she asked. _The storm -- how much time have we got?_ She didn’t actually know just how acute his Elf senses were with some things, but they were a hell of a lot better than hers.

_Too close. We have perhaps an hour._

Well, shit. Ireland wasn’t precisely large, but that was still nowhere near enough time. It was a good fifteen more minutes to even get to Wicklow proper. Lorna revved the engine again, darting around a red SUV, and prayed things wouldn’t descend too far into hell before they got everyone back.

Of course, that was provided she could shift anyone at all. She might have strength, but she had no practice. This might well fail utterly, but she had to try. The only thing she couldn’t do was nothing.

\--

It was two o’clock in the morning in Kirk, dark and frigid, and Sammie was definitely not happy to have her door hammered on. She was tousle-haired and bleary-eyed, and scowled until she saw it was Sharley. Wariness clouded her features.

“What the _hell_ , Sea Lady?” she demanded, rubbing her eyes.

“Grab your stuff,” Sharley ordered. “Only what you can carry. I have to get you all outta here.”

Sammie’s boyfriend -- Stewart, that was name -- came up behind her. “Why?”

“There’ll be a storm coming,” Sharley said. “East, not west, but it’ll wash this town away anyway -- I came to get you somewhere safe. Also, I need some bandages for this idiot.” Elves were tough bastards, but she didn’t want to leave a Memory-wound untreated.

Sammie and Stewart looked from her to Fëanor, who stood silent and sullen. “Come in,” Sammie sighed. “I need a better explanation than that, Sea Lady, if I’m gonna move out in the middle of the night, and so will everyone else.”

Surprisingly, it was Fëanor who chimed in. “It’s the end of the world as we know it,” he said, in perfectly clear, unaccented English. In spite of everything, Sharley had to fight not to laugh; he’d been fascinated by the radio when they’d been here last, and evidently he’d understood enough of that song to realize how apropos it was now.

“That it is,” she said, “and pretty soon, nobody’s gonna feel fine. Start calling everyone, Stewart. I don’t wanna have to tell this more than once.”

\--

The town of Wicklow still sat in ignorance of what nightmare approached it.  


Between the town and the surrounding area, it held some nine thousand people, and sat beside the sea. It was somewhat protected from the Atlantic by the bulge of Ireland’s southwest coast, but that wasn’t enough to protect it from this. Hell, nowhere in Ireland would be safe.

She stopped the motorcycle at the town’s edge, pulling over to the side and taking her helmet off. They’d see now if she could do this at all -- if her strength of gift was actually worth anything.

 _She cast her telepathy loose and wide, not yet consciously seeking. Instinct told her that if she tried to force it, she’d get nowhere; she had to be smoke, not a jackhammer. The minds she found shone like beacons in the dark, so brilliant and complex and alive. How many would remain so, when this was over?  
What she sent them was not words, but compulsion:_ Follow. Don’t pause, don’t think. Follow.

How was she to make certain they all did it? How the hell could she be sure they were doing it at all? In a smaller group, she might have been able to distinguish individual minds, but with nearly ten thousand people, she didn’t have a prayer. Hell, she might not have been able to even if she’d actually known what she was doing.

_Let me, Firieth Dithen._

Are you sure that’s a good idea? _While Thranduil had a greater level of precision than she did, that wasn’t saying much; they’d both seen how disastrously wrong his telepathic influence could go. Outside the forest, it was even more uncertain, too. He’d be piggybacking off her gift, with the source of his own far away._

Trust me, Lorna.

 _Should she?_ Could _she? No matter how old he was, he was demonstrably not infallible. But then, could anything he might do be any worse than what was coming?_

_Did she really want an answer to that?_

Though it was entirely against her better judgment, Lorna nodded. Whatever was to happen, the plain truth was that she couldn’t do this alone. She drew a deep breath, and tried to relax her mind.

_She didn’t feel Thranduil’s intrusion at first -- and even once she did, she suspected it was deliberate on his part, so she would not wonder what the hell he was doing. It was much like when he’d gone at Von Ratched through her mind, except it was familiar now. While there was always a chance he’d break someone’s brain, that someone wouldn’t be her._

_Lorna saw them all when he did -- the children first, their lights growing brighter as Thranduil found them. Lorna actually managed to find some of the parents connected to them, though nowhere near all. Thranduil had to handle the rest._

_Once she knew what the minds of the elderly felt like, she went through them herself -- they needed to come up front with the children, because they needed first crack at getting through the Door. The disabled, she thought, they had to go ahead, too, but finding their minds was another matter entirely, given the myriad forms of disability. Thranduil would have to help her there, too, dammit._

__Follow _, she sent them, infusing the thought with every ounce of irresistibility she could._ Follow. Safe.

The first of the cars startled her -- mainly because it was the head of a line. Christ, was this actually working? Had they actually managed it?

 _All right_ , she thought, drawing another deep breath, _now what?_

\--

The DMA was an odd place, but suited to its unique population.

The whole thing was technically one governing body, with each subset headed by its own overseer. The fact that these made up the entirety of the society meant there was a distinct lack of red tape, and not glacial grind of bureaucracy. When something had to get done, it got _done_.

There were thousands of people passing through it now, on their way from coastal Doors to interior ones. It was going to put an enormous strain on inland cities not expecting so many sudden refugees, but Miranda would happily slap the shit out of them, if she wasn’t entirely certain they’d have problems of their own soon enough.  
“Miranda.” Her walkie-talkie crackled static as Kazuko, the on-shift meteorologist, spoke. “Miranda, it’s hit Greenland.”

She shut her eyes. There was no Door in Greenland; whoever lived there was probably doomed. Iceland was equally fucked, unless she could somehow get Sharley to grab its entire damn population and move them...well, however the hell she moved. Miranda still had no idea how that worked.

 _Why_ were there not more Doors? If there had been any record as to how they had been found in the first place, it had long since been lost. Nobody knew how this dimension had even been discovered, or when; their records went back nearly three thousand years, but even the oldest hinted that there had been Gifted here a hell of a lot longer than that.

 

She strode out into the corridor, headed to the main thoroughfares that connected the Doors. Once again, the DMA was far busier than it ought to be, but this time it was full of normals. Most of them -- well, most of them looked kind of high, no doubt courtesy of the empaths and aura-manipulators, but there were plenty who looked every bit as scared and bewildered as they ought to. Miranda wondered just what they’d been told, that they were willing to come here to begin with.

The din of them was deafening, echoing through the huge thoroughfares -- the hubbub was so great that she could make out very few actual words. The air was thick with tension, with fear, but she didn’t need to be an empath to pick up on the odd air of excitement. Yes, the outside world was on its way to going to hell, but this was something entirely new and different, and a certain type of person was going to find that fascinating no matter what the circumstances.

But they weren’t moving fast enough. They had to pick up the pace, but they also had to avoid trampling over one another in the process. The outer lane was lined with people in wheelchairs, people leaning on crutches or canes -- on their way to the hospital, the cafeterias, anywhere at all they could be put to wait this out. Hurrying _them_ along wouldn’t be easy; even separating them from the healthy and able-bodied was proving difficult, especially given the families that naturally refused to leave them. Only the more mobile were passed on to Thranduil’s halls; though beautiful, the halls were not exactly designed for wheelchair access, but they could be navigated by people who needed walking aids.

Christ, what a mess. She was still tempted to slaughter Thranduil -- she wouldn’t stand a chance at hand-to-hand, but even he couldn’t survive a bullet to the brain. She didn’t, however, know if they were going to need him in the future -- and there was the little matter of the fact that Lorna would murder _her_. Miranda had no defense against telepathy.  
None of them did, and that made her nervous, which in turn pissed her off. Lorna seemed like a good egg, but if she ever chose to not be, there was nothing they could do to stop her. It was why Von Ratched had been such a damn nightmare. How the hell could you deal with someone who could take you over-- who could force you to kill yourself, if they chose?

Miranda shook herself. Just now, that wasn’t the problem. She’d worry about it later, provided they _had_ a later.  
\--  
In the Other, in Old Echo, the Sharley-thing stared at its bloody hand.

Until the Sharley-thing, the Memories were a hive without a queen, slaves to their hunger, sentient but barely sapient. They had been content to remain trapped in this place where they had spawned, but the Sharley-thing was not. She alone had been formed of a creature not fully human -- for little Marty had inherited only her mother’s humanity.

She licked her fingers, the blood already dry and flaky in the Other’s parched air, and she… _tasted_. What was this? All of the Memories tore apart their victims, but she had never tasted before. They fed on fear, not flesh. And yet she tasted now.

The Memories were not creatures of sensation. They felt neither heat nor cold; they could smell nothing. Even every surface was the same, so why this, why now?  
None of the others had any recollection of their former lives, and even the Sharley-thing’s were vague. There were faces, some with names attached, but not the strange creature the real Sharley had just brought through. He was not human, but neither was he native to the Other. He was something else, something new. The Sharley-thing wondered how much better his blood would taste when it was fresh.

There was only one way to find out. It was time to find a way out of Old Echo.

\--

The motorway was so clogged that the Wicklow people barely made it to the Door before the storm made landfall.

It wasn’t much like Thranduil’s storm. Yes, the wind was strangely warm, but it brought with it all the moisture of an Atlantic gale, with droplets too fine to be called rain whirling in the air.

The people of Wicklow, still half in Lorna’s thrall, were stretched out along the motorway from the east, meeting everything coming from Dublin and probably every other coastal town to the west. It was every bit as much of a clusterfuck as she’d feared— horns blaring, cars abandoned everywhere they could be abandoned, and long lines of people lugging whatever they could carry, buffeted by the wind.  
Thranduil’s guilt lurked ever at the back of his mind, and thus hers. It didn’t hinder his effectiveness, but it was there, and she knew it had to break free sooner or later.

Between them, they managed to guide everyone along, until they ran into Sveta at the turn-off to the field.

The poor woman looked beyond harassed. Her white hair was half blown out of its ponytail, her eyebrows pinched together with what Lorna was sure was a headache -- though whether it was caused by the light or the situation, she couldn’t guess.

“That bad, huh?” she asked.

Sveta launched into a stream of Russian so rapid Lorna didn’t have a hope in hell of understanding it.

“English, Sveta. I didn’t get but one word in three.”

“This is a disaster,” Sveta said. “There is a Door here, and in England, but do you know where there is no Door? Scotland, or Wales. Millions must go through one Door.

Lorna was rather surprised that she wasn’t giving Thranduil the stink eye -- but then, if she’d learned anything about Sveta, it was that the woman was nothing if not pragmatic. The situation was what it was, even if it sucked. Laying blame wasted them and energy , and they were short of both.

Christ, Lorna wished there were more telekinetics. If there were a load of them, maybe they could build some kind of...of sea wall, or something.

“It’ll be fine,” she said, in the face of all evidence, because what else could she say? She’d get these people through the Door, and she and Thranduil would head out again. They’d do this until they no longer could, because what choice did they have?  
But her limbs were growing heavier, the burst of adrenaline that had seen her to Wicklow fading fast. She needed an aura-manipulator, if one could be found.

_You need rest, Firieth Dithen. I cannot drive this contraption; should you lose consciousness, returning to the Door would be...difficult._

Lorna knew that, she _did_ , but how could she just quit while she was still more or less able-bodied? How could so do that, when so many others were risking their lives?  
“Not yet,” she said firmly. “I’m the only telepath the DMA has. If I keel over out there...you’ll think’v something.”

She could sense how very much he wanted to sever her consciousness, to remove the decision from her hands, but he refrained. Yes, compared to him she was terribly fragile, but it was her gift, and her choice, and he would not take it from her. That more than anything told her just how far he’d come in tamping down his possessiveness, his need to keep her safe regardless of her own wishes.

It heartened her, and bolstered her, and she and Thranduil helped funnel people through the Door while the wind rose. She was still tired, but she wouldn’t be collapsing any time soon.

\--

In spite of the pain in his shoulder, Fëanor could not deny he was intrigued.  
Sharley could be quite a demanding woman, but this was something different. The entire population of Kirk - weary, irritable, and ever more nervous -- was packed into the inn, tight as dried berries in a jar.

Sharley stood by the window, up on a chair so they could all see her. The backlight of the lanterns lit up her hair like a blue corona.

“Something’s coming,” she said. “Something dangerous, and I’m gonna get you all somewhere safe, but you can’t drive on the way. We’ve gotta pass through something to get there.”

“Through where?” a man at the back asked.

Sharley smiled. It was a very bitter smile. “Home” she said. “My home, though I haven’t lived there in ages. You’ll see why, once we get there.”

“That you will,” Fëanor said, desert-dry.

“Fëanor, stop helping,” she said, glowering at him. “Get everything you can carry and let’s get going. I’m gonna have to get more people later.”

“Will they breathe there?” Fëanor asked, and to him it was a legitimate question: even he had noticed how thin the air was.

“Humans do live in the other,” Sharley said, hopping off her chair.

He stared at her. “ _Why?_ ” he asked, genuinely mystified.  
“ _Hush_ , you. I mean it, everyone. Move.”

He was entirely sure they would not pass through Echo, but he had hope that they would go near it. He needed to know more of those Memories, and he did not trust Sharley to tell him. Not that he could blame her; he would not wish to explain balrogs to any unfamiliar with them. When something kills you, you could be forgiven for not dwelling upon it.

But those _things_...something about them called to him, and while he was not nearly stupid enough to answer it yet, he would, in time -- once he had some idea how to defeat them. He didn’t care what Sharley said: everything, even Morgoth, had its downfall.

Admittedly, the fact that even her father could not get rid of them was...troubling. Still, Fëanor was Fëanor; he always found a way.

\--

Lorna refueled her bike, and she and Thranduil set off into the storm.

They had to do quite a bit of off-roading, which was dicey as hell on a motorcycle, but they were well past Wicklow when disaster hit. In the form of a very black, very shiny oversized pickup.

She managed to catch the thing when it careened off the road at way-too-fucking-fast an hour, what she did not manage to do was keep steering, with the unfortunately predictable result that the bike crashed right off the edge of the motorway, tumbling down the embankment like a child’s toy.

The thing about helmets was that yes, they kept you from splitting your head open like a melon. What they did _not_ do was prevent your brain from rattling in your skull; as a result, darkness bloomed behind her eyes, and stole her consciousness once again.

_Fuck._

\--

Thranduil had known there was a reason he hated these damn things. He also knew this was the last time he trusted Lorna’s judgment.

Being an Elf, he suffered only a few scrapes and jarred limbs, but his heart leapt into his throat until he saw that the light of his wife’s fëa still burned bright.

Though she had managed to render herself unconscious yet again, he could not discern any broken bones -- she was a remarkably sturdy little creature, thank Eru.  
He tossed aside both their helmets, for they were of no use when the infernal contraption was wrecked -- not that he could have ridden it even if it wasn’t. The hat stayed on his head, at least, though the wind tugged his hair every-which-way. The storm might be approaching from the ocean, but the wind seemed unwilling to pick a direction.

Had he not been an Elf, climbing the embankment with her inert form might have been impossible. Certainly there were a number of concerned onlookers at the road’s edge, reaching to help him, and in spite of everything he was oddly pleased. He had seen some of the dregs of the Edain since he ventured into the world outside Lasgaelen, but there were a number, it would seem, who remained noble.  
“Jesus, are you all right?” a man asked. He was of middling age, his skin much darker than any Thranduil had seen in Eire thus far.

“I believe so. I do not think my wife as any broken bones.” he tried not to be too graceful as he ascended the last steps, but forcing himself to trip was surprisingly difficult.

“I’m a doctor,” the man said. “Lay her down -- let me check her over.”

There was no need, but an Edain husband would do it, so Thranduil did as bidden. “I told her that one day she would crash that _thing_ ,” he said, glancing down the embankment.

“You’re lucky that damn truck didn’t hit you,” a blonde woman said, glaring at the offending vehicle. It had landed on its side, the dazed driver crawling up and out the passenger door. “You’d be a smear on the motorway.”

 _That_ mental image was a little too vivid. While Thranduil could likely survive that, Lorna could not have. “What did that driver think he was doing?” he asked, glaring at the man as he staggered onto the sidewalk.

“Not much,” the blonde woman snapped. Her age was difficult to guess, but Thranduil thought she was some years older than Mairead. “Lad, you can’t carry her like that. Get her into our car.”

Thranduil was thoroughly nonplussed at being called ‘lad’ -- but then, to mortal eyes he looked little older than Lorna. “We must move more swiftly,” he said, eying the cars. While traffic was not creeping, it was not going nearly fast enough. “Once the storm truly hits, we will be trapped.” He lifted Lorna very carefully -- she was still quite deeply unconscious, and he thought it best to let her remain so for now.

“She really ought to have a back-board,” the man said, wincing. “If she’s damaged her neck, you could paralyze her.”

“She has not,” Thranduil said, and took a gamble. “Some of us have...gifts.” Perhaps the man would recoil, but perhaps not.

He did not -- instead, he sighed with relief. “That may come in bloody handy, before we get wherever the hell we’re going. Truth be told, I don’t know why we started -- just felt we had to.” He didn’t sound anywhere close to as disturbed by that as he rightly ought to.

“Other Gifted seek to move you somewhere safer,” Thranduil said. “Away from the coastline. Those so near the sea are in far more danger than those far from it. They have a singularly unique way of doing so, but we much reach it first.”

He glanced at the ground on either side of the highway. Some dozen yards ahead, in the direction of the Door, the land flattened out, more or less. It was lumpy and uneven, carpeted in many places by tall grass and low-growing wild shrubs. Many of the cars would not handle such terrain, but there were more than enough that would. Including that of this couple.

“I saw a film, not long ago,” he said meditatively, “called _The Road Warrior_. It was most instructive, and possibly useful now.”

The man gave him a look of utter disbelief. “It’d turn into chaos in a heartbeat,” he said.

“It need not,” Thranduil said, “but for that I need my wife.” Waking Lorna was perhaps unwise, but they had little option. He would bolster her in whatever fashion he could, and give her over to Elrond’s care once they reached home.

 _Wake, Firieth Dithen. I know it hurts, but we have great need of you_.

It took a moment, but Lorna blinked, rubbing her eye with her left hand. “Oh, fuck everything.”

“I believe it already has been,” he said dryly. “ _Road Warrior_ , Lorna. You must direct it.”

Lorna looked at him, and the crawling traffic, and burst out laughing. “Can I drive?”

“No,” he said emphatically. “I would like to reach the Door alive. This good couple have offered us a ride; it would only be courteous to get their car there in one piece.”

“You never let me have any fun,” she said, turning to look at the pair, who both wore very uneasy expressions. After crashing so spectacularly, she probably looked like a damn zombie. “Hi,” she said. “I’m not dead, I promise.”

The woman laughed a little, an edge of wariness to it. “Your husband says you can help us?” she said, the sentence trailing off into a question.

Lorna glowered at Thranduil. _Way to announce the telepathy to the world_.

 _I did not_ , he retorted. _Yet. Firieth Dithen we cannot leave things as they are. You have a gift you must use, insofar as you can in your condition._

He was right, goddammit. How to explain this in a way that wouldn’t drive these two off.

“I can get people moving,” she said, turning her head back to them. “Give them a nudge, like somebody else must’ve given you. We’ve got to get forward so we can get off the road, though.”

She could, of course, force them to comply with her, but she didn’t want to. Free will just wasn’t a thing that should be stolen, yet she’d had to do it so much already -- and would have to keep doing it. These two, at least, needed to make their own decision.

They shared a long look, and eventually the woman nodded. “If you can get us there, nudge away,” she said. “I’m Nicole, and this is Alan.”

“Grand to meet you both,” Lorna said. “I’m Lorna, and this is Thranduil.”

“Thranduil?” Alan asked, while she was loaded into the car. “Is that Welsh?”  
“Something like that,” Lorna said, her eyes dancing with mirth in spite of her weariness.

The car, which was some manner of SUV, would likely have seemed roomier if it wasn’t filled with the couple’s possessions, but Thranduil would have found it cramped no matter what. He wound up having to sit crosswise on the seat, back against the door, Lorna half-curled on his lap with her head beneath his chin. Her eyes were shut, her breathing slow and steady.

“She is well,” he assured Nicole, who turned to give her a worried glance. “She is nudging.”

He touched Lorna’s mind, offering her what strength he could, seeing what she saw. Looking through so many different sets of eyes was as dizzying to him as it was to her, for he had never done it before.

 _I won’t keep this up_ , she assured him, even as she planted a compulsion in the minds of all whose vehicles could handle leaving the road. Strangely, he thought being exhausted might actually be helping her: she was too weary for tension.  
It was difficult to see through the windscreen at this angle, but already cars and SUV’s were venturing off the pavement, leaving room for the others to accelerate slightly. It was so seamless it was eerie, and for the first time Thranduil realized just how much of a nightmare she could be. Would the other Gifted come to fear her, when they knew what she could do? He had an unfortunate suspicion the answer was yes -- and he could not fault them for it, either. None of them yet knew Lorna as he did. To most of them, she would simply be a frighteningly powerful woman -- and one who was married to the Elf that had destroyed the world.

A crack of thunder broke overhead, so near he could feel it in his teeth. Lorna twitched, sitting up with a cry, and he felt her hold on the other drivers break.  
Perhaps it would not have been so bad, if not for the thunder, but as it was, people panicked, veering off-course and occasionally into one another.

Alan swore, barely dodging a rogue pickup. It jostled Thranduil and Lorna into a brief tangle of limbs, as he wrapped his arms around her to stabilize her.

“Alan, let me drive,” she said, struggling to sit upright. “I can get us through this, but you’ve got to let me drive.”

“I can’t exactly pull over!” he cried.

“You don’t have to,” she said, oddly gently. “I’ve got telepathy and telekinesis. I can work through you, but only if you let me. I’ll not do it without your consent, but then we might all die.”

Thranduil couldn’t see the man’s expression, but Nicole’s was understandably horrified. Alan’s must have been equally so, because Lorna said, “ _Please_ ,” quite desperately.

“Okay,” he said, voice unsteady.

“I won’t hurt you,” she promised, “and I’ll get out as soon as I can.”

Thranduil could feel the shift in her power as her mind slipped into Alan’s. The SUV accelerated with a roar of the engine, weaving through the crazed traffic. Thranduil did not want to admit how hard he gripped the seat as he sat up, looking at the vehicular chaos lit up by another strobe of lightning. When he had thought _Road Warrior_ , he had not meant it quite so literally.

 

He didn’t at first understand why she didn’t take over all the drivers again, until he abruptly realized she probably couldn’t. Not again, not after she’d expended so much energy already.

Wind took hold of the car, or tried to; Lorna swore under her breath a she course-corrected, dodging a bright red SUV as it barreled across their path. The ground was so uneven now that Thranduil feared it would scrape off whatever was under the car - - he didn’t know what that might be, aside from crucial to its operation. The jouncing was so terrible he wondered how the Edain weren’t violently ill.

Lorna sped up again, over Nicole’s shrieked protest.

“I’ve got this,” she said -- half gasp, half growl. I’ve _got_ this.” Sweat beaded her forehead, her nose once again dripping red, but Thranduil suspected she was actually right. She might be bone-weary, but her eyes were alight with green fire, a grin that was downright savage twisting her lips. In that moment she was lovelier than he had ever seen her, her fëa bright as the heart of a star. The speedometer was pushing a hundred miles an hour now, and still they wove through the cars, Nicole and Alan screaming and swearing all the while.

They only slowed when the Door came into sight, a veritable car park surrounding it. Lorna must have released Alan, for he slammed on the brakes, sending her tumbling over the backseat -- naturally, she had to hit her head once again, cracking it against the dashboard. Thranduil managed not to slam into the driver’s seat, but only by dint of pure Elven reflexes.

“Son’v a… _ow_.” Lorna clambered upright, rubbing her forehead. She was likely going to have a fantastic collection of bruises on her face later. “Welcome to the DMA,” she said -- and, of course, passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. Fëanor has no idea what’s after him, but it’s going to make everyone’s lives as nightmare once it figures out how to get out of Old Echo. Trust Sharley to turn out to be the worst Memory of them all -- I have Plans with a capital P for Memory!Sharley. As for Thranduil, he will likely never get in a car again. Ever.
> 
> Title means “Road Warrior” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with light and love.


	59. Ar cén rudaí a fháil níos measa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Memory!Sharley is creepy as fuck, Thranduil quotes _The Terminator_ , Bridie has more sense than all of them put together, and the real Sharley is ready to murder absolutely everyone.

The Sharley-thing stood at the edge of Old Echo, concentrating.

They had tried to leave before, the Memories, several times, but they had not tried hard. Unless someone wandered into their domain, they were largely dormant; the Sharley-thing had been, too, until now. Now...now she was _thinking_ , thinking on her own away from the hive-mind of the others.

She paced the border, but she could not step across it, no matter how hard she tried. She thirsted, but there was nothing to have save her own kind, who would provide her no nourishment.

Or would they?

She raised her head, sniffing the air. The sense of smell was new to her, and she could put no name to the scents she found. Almost she resented the alien creature, for she knew now what a monstrous parody of life she was. In that she was even worse than the real Sharley, who had breathed and bled, though she did neither any longer.

Maybe, just maybe, the Sharley-thing could, too, if she could eat the alien creature. Maybe she too could live -- but only if she broke free of Old Echo.

She turned, walking back into town. Her brethren would not -- could not -- fight her. She was a _her_ , not an _it_ , and she would find her freedom.

\--

“Gather what you can carry,” Thranduil said, pulling Lorna into his arms, “and follow me. We owe you a very great deal, and I would keep you safe in return. My halls are not large enough for everyone, but I would have you among those whom I keep.”

Both Alan and Nicole had turned in their seats, looking at him with wide, hollow eyes. If they were going into shock, he could hardly blame them, but there was no time for it. She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.

Exasperated, Thranduil snatched the hat from his head, exposing his ears. “The world you live in is stranger than you know,” he said, and another random film reference entered his head. “Come with me if you want to live.”

His words weren’t enough to shift them, but somewhere behind them a car crashed. That shook them out of their stupor. They had loaded their own car with far more than they could carry, and unfortunately he couldn’t help them, given his armful of Lorna. All around them the wind was rising, hissing through the grass, clouds boiling black in the sky.

The queue was extremely long, backed up a good half mile, but the myriad injured were given priority, and Thranduil made certain Nicole and Alan remained with him, staring down the DMA agent who tried to protest.

“They are coming with me,” he said, “to my Halls. They will be of no trouble to you. Now let. Them. Pass.”

The man shuddered, but let them all through. Alan and Nicole moved safely in Thranduil’s wake as he parted the crowd -- Lorna’s dangling feet smacking a few heads until he shifted his hold on her. It was a long walk from the Wicklow Door, and she didn’t stir once -- her mind and her body had finally given out under all the abuse she had put them through. He knew Elrond would scold him soundly for allowing it to get to this point, but there was no ‘allowing’ with Lorna; the only way Thranduil could have stopped her would be to have severed her consciousness and keep her under, and that, he knew, she would never forgive. Yes, to the Elves she was unbearably fragile, but she was quite tough for an Edain, and he could not Even if the price of it was this. He could only thank Eru they had Elrond, because Edain medicine might not be enough to keep her from being stuck in bed for a month.

When they reached the door to the Halls, for once he could not pause to appreciate the Edain reaction. Should he pass one of his own Edain, he would instruct them to get the couple settled in one of the chambers still unoccupied.

\--

Sammie had known the Sea Lady could not have come from anywhere as normal as Earth, but she hadn’t expected _this_. And yet it explained so very much.

Even as a child, she’d picked up on the Sea Lady’s odd sorrow, but at ten years old she couldn’t have had a hope of understanding it. She understood it _now_ , and then some. Anyone who came from a world like this would be sad all the time. It was a nightmare of a place, so dry and bitter and red, the air thin and difficult to breathe. It left her and all the rest of them dizzy, and the Sea Lady kept having to pause to let them catch their breath -- something she didn’t look at all happy about, but she did it anyway. Wherever she was taking them all, Sammie hoped like hell it wasn’t someplace in here.

What had _happened_ to this place? They had walked through trees, dry and half-dead -- if trees had managed to grow in the first place, it had to have been difference once. Dry, wind-bleached grass rustled around their ankles, and she didn’t just wonder what had happened, but when. Something told her it was longer ago than it looked, though she couldn’t have said why she suspected it.

Now there was a road, cracked and uneven, looking very much like her mother’s pictures of Anchorage after the earthquake in 1964. They all had to avoid tripping on it, trying not to wheeze. The Sea Lady had said humans lived here, but Sammie had no idea how they could. She just hoped they wouldn’t be here much longer themselves.

\--

It took a very great deal to anger Elrond, but from all he had so recently felt, a very great deal had happened. And it had to be Thranduil’s fault, because there was no mistaking the power of an Elven ring.

Elrond and Celebrían had set the healing wards in order, quite certain they would soon be in use, and they were right enough -- the twins, acting as translators as best they could, informed their parents that dozens of ill and infirm Edain were on their way -- but surprisingly, it was with Thranduil’s permission.

Things got very _busy_ after that. The healing wards were still fully stocked, which was a mercy; Elven medicines lasted practically forever, so it was all still useable -- a good thing, since they had much to use it for. Elladan and Elrohir struggled along as translators, for their English was still far from perfect, and yet again Elrond cursed Thranduil’s name.

As if that curse had summoned him, the ellon himself came striding through the doors, bearing his unconscious wife -- who looked very much like she had been run over by one of those infernal cars. Twice.

“Lecture me later, Elrond,” he said. “Lorna needs care.”

“Obviously,” Elladan mutter, passing with a bowl of steeped herbs.

‘Lecturing’ was far too mild a word for what Elrond intended, but he had work to do right now. Whatever had happened to Lorna, she was already bruising, the front of her shirt dark with dried blood -- though he suspected that was from her nose, or Thranduil would be panicking.

“What did she do?” he asked, leading Thranduil into an empty room.

“A more accurate question would be ‘what _didn’t_ she do,” Thranduil said grimly. “She overexerted herself, and then crashed her motorcycle.”

“And you did not tell her to stop?” Elrond asked, lighting a lamp.

“One does not tell Lorna to do anything,” Thranduil said, laying her gently on the bed. “I discovered that the hard way some months ago. She very nearly struck me for it.”

Elrond would not have expected _that_ of her, for all her stubbornness of character, but even now he didn’t know her well. Washing the blood from her face, he fortunately discovered nothing more than a two-inch gash on her brow -- like Eldar, Edain head wounds bled far out of proportion to their seriousness. 

He sensed several fractures, though none were serious. For the most part, she was simply exhausted, in need of fluids, and a great deal of rest.

“She stays in the healing wards,” he said, giving Thranduil a look that was a little too frosty for an outright glare. “I do not care what either of you would prefer -- she stays here for a week.”

Thranduil opened his mouth to protest, and now Elrond _did_ glare.

“A week, Thranduil. She has great endurance for an Edain, but she is still an Edain. She has pushed herself too far already. She stays, even if someone must sit on her. Her sister had children who would no doubt prove willing.”

“I cannot stay with her,” Thranduil said, running his fingers over her hair. “We will have many more refugees soon, and I must deal with them.”

Elrond’s ire softened a little. “She will not be alone. Her family will come to her.”

“But it is my fault she is in such a state,” Thranduil sighed. “She would have had no need to push herself thus if not for me.”

“No,” Elrond said flatly, “she would not. You have much to atone for, Thranduil, but I trust that you can do it.”

\--

What the Sharley-thing was thinking had never before been contemplated by a Memory, for the Memories did not think -- not in any meaningful sense of the word. 

She ghosted back to the unbeating heart of the town, the passage of her feet scarcely disturbing the dust. Could Memories harm one another? It had never been tried. It had never been _contemplated_ , but if there was any queen in this hive, it was her. The real Sharley had held a will of iron, right up until her gruesome death -- surely her Memory must have the same, but the Memory did not know. It had never been tested...until now.

_Come to me. All of you, come to me._

Come they did, through the silent streets -- dozens of them. There were those who originally died here, and those who had been caught in the intervening centuries. They hungered ceaselessly, restless, never knowing satiation or peace…

_Come to me_. She gestured to a blonde woman, timeless and nameless -- for none save the Sharley-thing remembered its former name. _Come_.

She touched its face, and truly _felt_ the unnatural smoothness, the lack of both heat and cold. Such abominations they all were, including her.

“You are hungry, and you are tired,” she said aloud. “Rest now.” She dug her fingers into the thing’s eyes, drinking in that hunger, feeding off of it in turn. Leaning forward, she sank her teeth into the compliant thing’s face.

Memories were impervious to weaponry, magical or otherwise, but evidently they were not impervious to one another. What passed for its skin parted beneath her teeth like the vague remembrance of fruit, but there was no taste. Nourishment, but nothing more. The Sharley-thing craved even as she ate - craved actual life, not this gross parody of it.

The other Memory stood still, making no protest as she bit. They were not alive, and had no survival instinct -- and she was their queen.

Already she felt stronger, but she knew one would not be enough. If she were to breach the boundary of Old Echo, she might well need all of them. These, her peers, would be a peace -- and in time, she would be alive.

The Memory’s brain gave her nothing, but when she ate its heart, she would swear her own beat, just for a moment.

She ate another, and another, her fellows lining up like cattle, and she would swear there was something like _relief_ among them. Not that she knew what relief felt like, but she was certain she had some distant memory of it. She ate them all, and oh, maybe, just maybe, this was some echo of what life felt like. There was no blood in her veins, no heartbeat, no life as any reasonable person might define it.

And yet, when she stepped beyond the boundary of Old Echo, something shifted within her. And she wanted so much more.

\--

Fëanor did not want to admit that he was helping, because he was Fëanor, and helping Edain was beneath him. And yet here he was, taking up the rear of this frightened group, bearing the sword Sharley had brought for her own use. There were, she said, more nasty things in the Other than just the Memories -- things the sword would actually work against.

“What of you?” he’d asked, and she’d smiled -- possibly the most unsettling expression he had ever seen. 

“I don’t need one,” she’d said. “Make sure nothing sneaks up on us. I know you’ll notice if it tries.”

And so he guarded -- rather impatiently, for the Edian, true to his prediction, struggled in this thin air. How any of them could live here, he had no idea.

And even now, Old Echo called to him. When would he have the time to divine how best to deal with it? They were close now, so very close, and he wanted, he _wanted_ \-- a few more steps and Sharley would return them to Lasgaelen, to the halls of its half-mad King, trapped. He would --

Up ahead, Sharley froze, and the entire group stumbled to a halt.

“Oh,” she said softly, “ _shit_.”

He was tall enough that he could see easily over the heads of the crowd, his eyes finding the source of her disturbance. He would not, even later, be ashamed to admit to the jolt of startled unease that shot through him when he saw it. Memories, after all, were Memories, and were like nothing else in any world.

In spite of the fact that it was rank insanity, Fëanor so wanted to face off with the Sharley-thing. It had drawn his blood -- had personally affronted him, and now, it would seem, it sought him. For why else would it breach the boundary of Old Echo?

Though more importantly, _how_?

When he asked the real Sharley, she seemed too horrified to answer. When she opened her mouth, no words issued.

“How?” Fëanor asked again, enthralled. Perhaps his grasp of English was not yet good enough, but he would swear she had tole him the Memories were confined to Old Echo.

And yet here, now, hers stood facing them, motionless and all but expressionless, perhaps a dozen yards away. The thing remained monstrous, this creature without a fëa, while on the surface looking more alive than the real Sharley.

“I have no fucking idea,” she managed at last, and he never would have thought her voice could contain such terror. “Everybody grab hands. Do it, now.” Her tone brooked no argument; even Fëanor found himself taking a woman’s hand before he knew what he was doing -- 

And then the Other was gone, and they stood in the nightmare that was Ireland, much too far away from the Door. They hadn’t gone nearly far enough to reach the DMA while in the Other.

Sharley looked around, the wind tugging at her ponytail. “We’re not too far from Lasgaelen,” she said, voice not quite steady. “It’s closer than the Door.”

“How will we get past Lorna’s wall?” he asked.

“Climb,” she said grimly. “I’m gonna go back. If that thing’s outta Echo, the rest might be, too, and there’s people who oughtta know about it. And _no_ , Fëanor, you’re not going with me. You can still die, and I don’t think Námo would give you back a second time.”

She was likely right, Eru damn her.

“Get these people to Thranduil’s Halls safely, and when this mess is over, I’ll take you back to the Other. I just need to make sure everyone’s not gonna die there first.” She was gone before he could respond.

\--

There were very, very few things that could truly scare Sharley anymore, but Memories were at the top of that list. She’d always comforted herself with the knowledge that they were trapped within Old Echo, so how the _hell_ had this one gotten out?

It was waiting for her upon her return, and even looking at it made her shudder. To see herself as she had once been, with those flat, malevolent eyes, glassy and lifeless as a doll’s….

And yet now there was thought in those eyes, _real_ thought. Something was actually going on in the thing’s head, something more than mere hunger and basic cunning. It stared at her, this mirrored abomination, looking more alive than she did, dressed in the jeans and worn white tank top she’d died in.

“How did you do it?” Sharley asked. “How the hell are you outta Echo?”

When the thing spoke, its speech was not at all the halting, stilted sort she was used to from the Memories. “We never all tried to move at once,” it said, its voice now the same raspy, vaguely Southern accent as hers. “Now I am the only one.”

It took Sharley a moment to work out what the thing meant, and the ghost of remembered nausea stole through her.

_“Oh,_ seriously _?”_ Jimmy asked. _“Fucking_ gross _.”_

_“Hold on, hold on,”_ Kurt said, his tone laced with horrified fascination. _“You seriously fucking_ ate _them?_ How? _You people are indestructible.”_

_“Don’t talk to it, Kurt,”_ Sinsemilla admonished.

_“It’s a valid question,”_ he protested.

Sharley pinched the bridge of her nose, her terror giving way to disbelief. “You ate the others. You _ate_ them.” She had absolutely no desire to look at _that_ on the thing’s timeline. “What is it you even want? Aside from eating my baby-sitting charge, anyway.”

“I want what you are,” the thing said, stepping toward her. “I want life.”

Rage spiked through Sharley, magma-hot; for a moment, it actually felt like blood was moving in her veins. “ _I_ don’t have life, you fucker!” she screamed. “You bastards took that from me -- here, you want this?” She seized the Memory’s hand, and some dark part of her was satisfied that even it flinched at her touch. What she had become was so abominable that even other abominations couldn’t bear it.

“There’s no _life_ here,” she snarled, slapping its hand against the side of her throat, right where her pulse should have been. “There’s no heartbeat, no breath unless I will it. There’s nothing in my veins now. _Is this what you want?_ Because you’re sure as fuck not gonna find what I don’t have.”

The air around her shivered, and some dim part of her knew she had to rein it in, before she actually damaged something. Time in the Other was too fragile for her to touch, but it sparked along her skin, a simulation of life, thrumming through her like the ghost of a heartbeat. This thing -- this _thing_ \-- Memories were not subject to Time, or she would have torn its history apart.

“You know,” she found herself saying, “I almost wish you _were_ alive. I wish you could know what pain is. I wish I could do to you what you fuckers --” She paused. If she could find some way to give this thing life -- some way that didn’t involve eating Fëanor -- she could kill it.

“I’ll give you life,” she snarled, yanking it after her again. If anyone could do it, it would be Jary. Her foster-mother could give this thing what it wanted...then she would give it what she wanted.

That was the plan, anyway. Quite suddenly, she found herself holding nothing but air. The goddamn thing had -- oh, _fuck._

_“Well,”_ Layla said, _“that’s unfortunate.”_

\--

The good thing about being so old, Bridie thought, was that you could people-watch without anyone judging you for it.

There were a number of other old people now -- old, and some younger who were injured. A great many children, too, running about while their harassed parents tried fruitlessly to corral them. Of course the children thought this was more entertaining than terrifying...for now. In other words, it was chaos, only added to when Fëanor showed up, dragging a good four hundred people he’d found God knew where.

Without prompting or consultation, she and the other villagers started herding them into the great hall; that way, at last they couldn’t wander off and get lost. There was little enough to feed them all with, but the locals tried. That was about all they could do, though; they had no answers to give.

And then Lord Thranduil came sweeping in.

They hadn’t seen him dressed up like this since since his and Lorna’s wedding, and Bridie had never seen him with this expression. His dress/tunic/whatever it was was a severe black, rendering his face and his hair even whiter, with some sort of coat of heavy, rusty velvet, bearing some kind of staff that she was certain had an actual meaning, though it was lost on her and probably everyone else. Even if a person didn’t know what he was, he was bloody intimidating, and he seemed to be turning it on full-force as he ascended the steps of his throne. Interestingly, however, he wore no crown of any sort, and Bridie wondered why.

“You are all safe here,” he said, settling on his throne, “but you must not wander off, for it is all too easy to get lost in my caverns. We will find you all accommodation, until all is over and it is safe for you to return to your homes.”

Someone -- a pale woman with a mass of dark brown hair -- actually raised her hand. “Who, uh, who are you?” she asked, not a little hesitantly.

“King of these Halls,” he said simply. “Once of this entire island, long before your people arrived. I would protect it still, to the best of my now limited ability.”

It was fascinating, really, how _inhuman_ he looked. While he never really did look human, he was normally closer than this, and Bridie wondered if he was doing quite the right thing. They needed to firmly know he was in charge, but they didn’t need to fear him. Best break this a bit.

“Where’s Lorna?” she called -- and sure enough, that softened him a touch.

“In the healing wards,” he said. “She overtaxed herself, and now Elrond will not release her for a week.”

Bridie snorted. “That’ll be a neat truck, once she’s awake. You’d best go to her, before she drives him mad -- we’ll deal with this lot. Go sit on your wife, and don’t get up until she promises to stay put.”

He arched an eyebrow, not entirely pleased, but Bridie could stare down anyone. If he had any brain at all, he’d take her meaning: _You don’t know how to deal with outsiders._

Bless him, he wasn’t an idiot. “Settle them in as you see fit,” he said. “I will confer with you later.”

He stalked through the crowd with regal purpose, parting it without effort. Once he was gone, Bridie sighed.

“He’s not as bad all that,” she said. “Don’t cross him and you’ll be fine. Let us handle him.”

“He’s -- what _is_ he?” someone asked, voice unsteady.

“He’s an Elf,” Bridie said. “One’v the last. Bit scary, but he means well. He’s got you lot in here because you’d be in more danger than the healthy are, out in the world. You’ll stay ’til it’s safe for you to go, and we’ll find your room. Just don’t get lost and don’t break anything.”

\--

There were a thousand and one things Thranduil needed to be doing, but Bridie was right: whenever Lorna woke, Elrond would need backup to deal with her. Her sister might not be enough. 

Unfortunately, he nearly ran headlong into Fëanor, who had dropped his Edain off in the great hall and left.

“Sharley,” Fëanor said, by way of explanation, before Thranduil could speak. “Sharley brought them, but she could not return with us.” Irritatingly, he was speaking in Quenya, but Thranduil didn’t have the time to castigate him for it.

“And where is she?”

“In her home,” Fëanor said. “There is something...I did not fully understand her, but something very like wights live in her world, once contained by now free, and she must deal with them before she can return.”

All right, even Thranduil had to concede _that_ necessity, though he also knew better than to take Fëanor strictly at his word. “How did you get your people over that wall?” he asked.

“With difficulty,” Fëanor said dryly. “I had wondered why in Eru’s name you had wed an Edain, but I understand much better now. It is only a pity she is mortal.”

Incredibly, there was actually approaching sympathy in Fëanor’s gaze. He had made such a hash of his own marriage that Thranduil was genuinely surprised; Nerdanel’s abandonment of him was the closest thing to actual divorce among the Eldar. Fëanor had been counted as so wicked that Thranduil wondered if the Valar had been willing to grant her a true dissolution of their bond.

“She is certainly rather stubborn,” he said. “When Sharley returns, bring her to me. I would know what it is that detains her.”

“Something that may well prove a danger to us,” Fëanor said grimly.

“How?” Thranduil asked.

Fëanor shook his head. “She can traverse the bounds of worlds,” he said. “This creature is some manner of echo of her, created upon her death. If she can do it, perhaps that thing can, too.”

_That_ was not at all a thought Thranduil needed -- not on top of everything else. “Then let us hope she can deal with it,” he said, and fought the urge to sigh. “My people will take care of hers, until I am certain I can corral my wife.”

“I wish you luck,” Fëanor said. “I myself am in pursuit of a drink.”

Thranduil left him to it, too distracted for the requisite anger that came with dealing with the original Kinslayer. He would summon it later, when he had the time.

It was testament to Elrond and Celebrían that, in spite of the language barrier, they had the healing wards in remarkable order. The sight, however, jarred Thranduil; the last time he had seen them so populated had been at the height of the Obliteration, while far too many of his people sweated and hemorrhaged their lives away.

He was pulled out of horrified remembrance by Lorna’s voice, loud even over the din, apparently berating her sister.

“I can’t stay here, Mairead. I can’t let Thranduil deal with this shite on his own.” Her voice was hoarse, yet still strident.

“He’s not on his own, you gobshite.” Mairead, naturally, sounded entirely exasperated. “He’s got the rest’v us, and right now you’re as much use as the black knight from _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_.”

Thranduil snorted before he could help it, and had to swallow a laugh when Lorna said, “It’s only a flesh wound.”

When he entered the room, Mairead gave him a look that was outright pleading. “Lord Thranduil, if you don’t do something, I swear I’ll sit on her.”

“I’ll have your leg,” Lorna warned. “I’m invincible.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You’re a loony,” he said. “I will take over from here, Mistress Mairead.”

“Oh, just call me Mairead already. You’re my bloody brother-in-law.”

In spite of everything, he smiled a little. “Very well, Mairead. I will ensure she stays put.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Lorna protested. 

“And you are going to stay right here, Firieth Dithen,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed. Already bruises were forming on her face, though the cut on her brow was healing thanks to Elrond. “I know you wish to help, but I would not have you damage yourself -- others are aiding me. You have done more than enough this day.”

“I don’t want to be stuck down here,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “It’ll drive me spare.”

“Elrond was quite firm,” he said, squeezing back. “In matters of healing, it is unwise to argue with him. I will have Mairead or someone bring you the twins, so that at least you will not die of boredom.”

Lorna smiled a little. “Poor things -- it feels like we’ve been away from them for ages. I hope they’ve not driven whoever’s looking after them distracted.”

“They are our children,” he said, running his fingers through her hair. “Of course they have -- but you must sleep soon, too. You have earned your rest and then some.”

She made a face. “Stay with me, at least, until I do?”

“Of course I will, Firieth Dithen,” he said, lying beside her and drawing her close. “Rest, and once you have recovered, I will crown you my queen.”

“Don’t you bloody dare,” she said, the words half mumbled against his chest. “Remind me to explain Ireland’s issues with monarchy later.”

Thranduil only smiled, carding his fingers through her hair again. Yes, there were a thousand and one things he should be doing, but for the moment he was staying right here.

\--

The Sharley-thing hadn’t known what she was doing, but some instinct in her borrowed memory had made her _step_ , and then--

Then she was in a new place, a place with green, and blasting wind she could actually feel. Oh, where _was_ she? It was so alive here, and now she was so, so…

….hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that really _is_ unfortunate. Because, you know, they so needed another complication -- but don’t worry, Memory!Sharley will eventually be stuck with a babysitter, and absolutely no one will be pleased. And eventually, she will actually prove useful to them -- once she stops trying to eat the Elves. Title means “In which things get worse” in Irish. As ever, your reviews are rainbows. Gimme rainbows.


	60. Pleananna agus Imní

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sixty chapters. Damn.
> 
> In which Thranduil learns how to delegate, Sharley is useful, Lorna really doesn’t like being stuck in bed, Azarael is disturbed, and Lorna introduces Thranduil and Fëanor to the joy of trippy 80’s fantasy movies.

Between the lot of them, the villagers managed to get the newcomers set up with rooms and fed as best they could manage. Most of them seemed so grateful to be safe, and so awed by their surroundings, that they didn’t mind there wasn’t much to eat. They were out of the storm and away from the chaos. 

Almost all of them had questions about Lord Thranduil, many of which the villagers couldn’t actually answer: where had he come from, how long had he been here, just what _were_ Elves, exactly?

“I don’t know, I don’t know, and you’d have to ask him,” Big Jamie said, leading a group down to a hastily-opened wing of flats. “He says he’s been in Ireland five thousand years, but he only came and formally met us a little under a year ago.” _And been nothing but trouble ever since_ , he thought. It wasn’t a very charitable thought, though that didn’t stop it being true. Ever since he’d knocked up Lorna, it had been one thing after another, and now _this_. Jamie didn’t even know what _this_ was yet, but there was no way it wasn’t Lord Thranduil’s fault.

Jamie didn’t want to resent it, but he couldn’t help it a bit. The village had seen some amazing and wonderful things sine Lord Thranduil emerged from the forest, but it had also had the rug yanked out from under it, and things were never going to go back to the way they were. His pub had been in the family for three generations, and now it was just an empty building. The flat they lived in in the Halls was beautiful, but it wasn’t _home_. Pretty as it was, he missed having windows, and he knew he wasn’t the only one. In here the village wasn’t a village, it was some kind of commune.

But he couldn’t go thinking about that yet. There wasn’t time. It could be dealt with later, when the world wasn’t tearing itself apart.

\--

Thranduil stayed until Lorna fell asleep, so deeply that she didn’t stir when he eased himself off the bed. However much he wanted to stay, he had work to do.

Sight of the healing wards again made him shudder, and he had to force himself out of horrified memory. While he was not so skilled a healer as Elrond, he was still an Elf -- he could do more for many of these people than any Edain doctor, and he could translate more effectively than Elladan and Elrohir.

Food, though. What in Eru’s name was he to do about food? Could Sharley bring them any? The blasted creature had brought him hundreds of extra people -- she’d better bring them all something to eat.

\--

Sharley, at the moment, was panicked and more than a little pissed off.

She wasn’t used to panic anymore; like so many things, it had died when she did. This, though….

“We are so fucked,” she said gloomily.

 _“Sharley, you need to get Azarael,”_ Sinsemilla said.

“What the hell good is _he_ gonna do?” Sharley demanded. “He doesn’t have any more control over the damn Memories than I do, and if the thing can do _that_ …”

Sharley was well-used to situations she couldn’t control, but none of them had been this potentially lethal to anyone but her before. Why the hell was this Memory so different? The logical conclusion was that it because it was _her_ Memory, Memory of one who wasn’t human, but she suspected there was more to it than that.

There had to be some way to grab the damn thing and keep it here -- except there was nothing that could stop _her_ , so why should she be able to stop it?

But then, it truly was different, so maybe -- just maybe -- it could destroyed even without proper life. It was probably a fool’s hope, but it was all she had right now.

“Sinsemilla,” she sighed, “go get Az. I’m gonna try to grab that thing, so if I’m not here, tell him to cross to Earth.”

 _“Sharley, I don’t know how wise that is,”_ Sinsemilla said. The voices had been separated from her once, long ago, and the result...hadn’t been pretty. _“I don’t think you can cross without me.”_

“If you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it,” Sharley said. “And we won’t know until we try. _Go_.” And with that, she crossed.

\--

The Sharley-thing was disoriented, lost. She had none of the real Sharley’s memories of Earth -- this was all new, and terribly overwhelming.

The road she was on wasn’t unlike those in Old Echo, but there was no dust, and the moisture in the air -- she could _feel_ it.

She _also_ felt the very hard blow to the back of her head. The real Sharley had crossed right behind her, and hit her hard enough to nearly send her sprawling. It didn’t seem she was capable of pain yet, but oh, she certainly felt the hit nonetheless.

She staggered, turning, and was certain a living person would be experiencing an emotion right now. The Sharley-thing no longer remembered what emotions felt like, but surely she ought to have one right now.

The real Sharley looked positively livid, until...until. Nothing changed, and yet everything did. Something shifted behind her eyes, the fury vanishing, her expression smoothing into a mask of remote stillness.

The Sharley-thing might be incapable of actual emotion, but evidently she could feel wariness. She had a few dim memories of the Stranger, of the real Sharley’s fear of the thing. While the Sharley-thing knew it could not hurt her, she didn’t know what else it _could_ do.

The Stranger stared at her, its face as void of emotion as any of her former kind had worn. It seized her right wrist, and she twitched at the horror of its touch, instinctively trying to cross back to the Other -- and failing. The Stranger’s vice-grip remained on her wrist.

“No,” it said, and with a step it crossed, taking her with it.

\--

God though he was, Azarael could not teleport. He could, however, traverse more worlds than Sharley, and reached the appointed place within fifteen minutes. What he found there made him, for the first time in all his long years, stop in his tracks.

He had seen Memories before -- had tried, multiple times, to destroy them. All he had ever succeeded in doing was confining them to Old Echo, but confined they had been -- until now.

Were it any other Memory, he would not be so disturbed, but it just had to be his daughter’s. It was not happy, either, struggling against her grip -- no, against the Stranger’s grip. So long as the Stranger was ascendant, the Memory wasn’t going anywhere; even now, there were things that the Stranger could do which Sharley had not yet learned. Much of Sharley’s mind was still stuck in what Jary called ‘Human Mode’.

 _“Told you,”_ Sinsemilla said. _“What do we do with it?”_

Truthfully, Azarael did not know. If the thing had broken the enchantments he placed on Old Echo, he might well have a very difficult time of containing it again. “We bring it back to my fortress,” he said, “and I will see what might be done. Stranger, it is high time you learn to walk as I do.” Though Sharley was yet incapable, the Stranger did not share her unconscious, self-imposed limitations. It had never been human, and thus and no humanity to shed.

“You can’t hold me,” the Memory said. “Not forever. You made us, Azarael, and then you imprisoned us.”

“I did not make you,” he said. It was jarring, just now _alive_ the thing looked, especially next to his scarred, corpse-pallid daughter. “You have none to blame but your brethren. Whom you evidently ate.” Azarael was not a creature so easily disturbed, but that came close.

The thing tilted its head to the side, regarding him with a curiosity that was worryingly...human. “They are at rest,” it said. “They are at rest, and I will live, and the Memories will be no more.”

“We need Jary,” the Stranger said. “If we can give this thing what it wishes, we can kill it.”

Azarael was not overly fond of dealing with his opposite number, but there were times it was unavoidable. “Very well,” he said. It was worth an attempt, at least.

\--

Thranduil called the entire village together in one of his smaller audience chambers -- though ‘small’ was a relative term, for he could fit all three hundred of them in here easily.

“I need your aid,” he said. “Long ago, when there was an actual kingdom here, I did not run it alone. I would...I believe the word is ‘deputize’ you, for I think we will only gain more people as time goes on. I know nothing of Edain outside of this village -- you must be their leaders, not I, and educate me along the way. I will lend you my authority as necessary, so that if any question you, you may point them at me.

“That’d be hilarious,” Bridie said. “I think you’ve already made a few damn near piss themselves. You do realize the Irish’ll not accept the idea’v a king, right? We know you, and we know that’s not what you’re like, but _they_ won’t.”

“I believe the word Lorna used was ‘allergic’,” he said, pacing before the fire. “That is why it must be you that deal with them. Given your people’s history with monarchy, I cannot fault them, either. If they give you trouble….” He paused. “If they give you trouble, send them to Lorna. No doubt that would alleviate her boredom. As my wife she is my queen, whether she likes it or not, and in times of old her word would have carried as much weight as mine.”

“Have you actually told her that?” Mairead asked, more than a bit dubious.

Thranduil snorted. “That she was my queen? Yes. She said I had better not ‘bloody dare’ crown her.” He was tempted, in spite of everything, to do it anyway, once they had the time and the resources.

“What’re we going to do about food?” Big Jamie asked. “We were low enough before, and now we’re nearly out.”

“Long ago, my people made a kind of waybread known as lembas,” Thranduil said, still pacing. “While some of the ingredients no longer exist, I will see if they can be substituted. Soon enough we can plant crops, tilling all the available land to account for our larger population. The DMA keeps its own livestock, I believe; I will barter Elven medicine for them. Long ago, my people were self-sustaining; though it will take work to become so again, I believe it can be done. Though I fear it will be a rude awakening for some of the new people.” Lasgaelen still had plenty of farmers, but he couldn’t imagine there were many from large cities who would be accustomed to the specific type of hard labor that went into farming. Even those of Lasgaelen might have trouble with the scope of it at first.

Guilt pricked him again, and yet...and yet. Some small, deep part of him was grateful for this, unfair to them thought it was. Thranduil would freely admit he could be a selfish bastard -- obviously, given that he’d seduced Lorna within fifteen minutes of meeting her. None of this would be happening if not for that, yet he could not regret it.

“We’ll be needing to live aboveground again, come springtime,” Big Jamie said firmly. “Provided the government leaves us alone.”

“Something tells me your government will have little thought to spare for us,” Thranduil said. It grieved him, that they would wish to move back to the village, but it also did not surprise him. Home was a powerful draw, and unlike the rest of these Edain, theirs was very near. “The village still ought to have electricity thanks to Shivshankari and Damodara, but water may be more difficult.” He did not wish them to think he wanted to keep them against their will. Yes, he wanted them safe, but they were not his prisoners.

He still needed to decide what to do with his _actual_ prisoners. Perhaps Sveta and Lorna were right, and he should kick them out into Russia. They didn’t need to be eating what little food he still had.

“Mistress Bridie, I would put you in charge,” he added. Out of all the village, she was the most...forthright, and most difficult to ignore. “You can delegate who does what, and where. I will divine where to find enough seeds for planting.” He highly, highly doubted the DMA would have enough to spare, but he had to check. “Meanwhile, I will see about lembas.”

“We can help,” Kevin said, nodding at Big Jamie. “We’re getting the hang’v cooking on a fire.”

“Thank you,” Thranduil said. “All of you, if you need answers or aid, come to me. This will be difficult, but it will work.”

He searched their faces, looking for any form of blame, and was not surprised when he find some. He did not fault them; in all honesty, he was relieved it was not worse. But then, in a sense he had been theirs longer than they had been his, stories of him passed down through generations. That so many had seen his occasional night walks over the years had come as a great surprise.

He was theirs, and they were his, and somehow they would muddle through.

\--

Fëanor thoroughly disliked being stuck so near Sharley, especially since he thought it unneeded.

She had said that the Sharley-thing was contained, that it couldn’t cross back to Earth. If anyone could keep it imprisoned, it would be her father. Fëanor would suspect she did it to annoy him, save for the fact that she found him as annoying as he found her.

“How long must this last?” he asked, trailing her through a group of Edain. Naturally, she had not bothered to tell him where she was going, and he was on the verge of abandoning her, warning or no warning. How much trouble could he truly get in, inside the Halls?

“Until we find a way to give that thing life without it eating you,” she said, not turning around. “Once we do that, we can kill it.”

“And how long will that take?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. Nobody’s ever tried this before. Azarael’s got Jary, my foster-mother, working with him. She’s goddess of Life back home -- if anyone can figure it out, it’s her, but I’m not holding my breath.”

“You don’t breathe,” Fëanor pointed out.

“Exactly.”

“Where are we going?” he demanded, exasperated. These Halls were quite large, and the number of Edain comparatively few, and yet he felt he was constantly on the verge of stepping on one.

“The kitchens, and then the DMA. I can help with this food issue,” she said.

“How?” he asked, glowering at the Edain as they scrambled out of his way.

“Time,” she said. “Theoretically, anyway.”

He had no idea what that meant -- he wasn’t even sure of the word ‘theoretically’. She seemed to be forgetting more and more often that he was still in no way fluent in her tongue -- for it was too unconscious to be an attempt to annoy him.

When they reached the kitchen, they found Thranduil and several of the Edain, a row of jars and sacks on the long table before them. The fire burned low, but the room was nevertheless very warm.

“Oh, joy,” Thranduil muttered, glaring at Fëanor.

“Hush, you,” Sharley said, poking at one of the bags. You have lentils or anything?”

“I brought some,” the large, red-haired man said. “Here.” He grabbed a brown carton, thumping it on the table.

Sharley opened it, her scarred fingers surprisingly deft. Plucking out a lentil, she held it in her cupped palms.

What happened next surely should have been more dramatic than it actually was. A single, slender, delicate vine unfurled from her hands, trailing downward, buds forming and branching off into a proper plant, the green startlingly bright in the firelight.

“Are you like Mick?” the red-haired man asked. “D’you make things grow?”

Sharley shook her head. “Not in the same way. This isn’t life, Jamie, it’s _time_. This is what this lentil was before it was picked last year. If you get me seeds, I can have a crop for you in a week. That’d tide you over until you can break more land for greater crops.”

Even Fëanor stared at her. He had known she held great -- if silent -- power, but he would not have guessed she could do _this_. Gone was her habitual reserve -- there was something very like _life_ in her odd eyes.

“I figure I can sneak around the world and do this, and give the chloropaths a boost,” she added, while the vine furled up again.

“Chloropaths?” Thranduil asked.

“The people like Mick, the ones that grow things,” she said, depositing the lentil back into the box. “Humans get tired. I don’t. Nobody’s gonna starve, if I can help it, and there’s enough chloropaths to explain it that nobody ever needs to know I’m involved.”

That she would not wish to take credit for this baffled Fëanor, who had never hesitated to flaunt his own genius -- but then, he was not what she was. He could see how she would easily seem monstrous to an Edain. She was unsettling enough even to him.

And yet she carried with her such silent sorrow, so depthless that to see it broken, even only for a moment, was jarring. What had she been like, in life? Thanks to that Memory, he could actually picture her alive now.

It made no difference, but he was curious nonetheless. He thought it unfair that she could read the entirety of his history, yet he knew so little of her. Not so very long ago, he would hardly have cared, but if he was to be trapped with her for Eru knew how long, he was determined to learn more.

“I do not know how to repay you,” Thranduil said, and he didn’t sound pleased about it.

“Quit breaking the world,” Sharley retorted. “Make your food and go deal with your wife. She’s probably driving Elrond crazy.”

“I am hoping she was sleep a while yet.”

“Don’t hope too hard. C’mon, Fëanor -- we’ve gotta see Miranda.”

\--

Azarael was annoyed.

It was not an unfamiliar feeling, given how ridiculous and aggravating a world the Other was, but he usually wasn’t _this_ annoyed unless he was dealing with his two contemporaries. Both of them were on their way, which was only going to make his day so very much better.

He didn’t dare leave the Memory alone, so he caged it in his forge while he worked, trapped within a circle of enchantment. Like every room in his fortress, it was ridiculously oversized, the floor and walls sleek black stone without a single seam. An army of smiths could work here, but he always used a particular forge, which now glowed red-hot.

Only Jary knew why he had built such a massive fortress when he was almost the only one who lived in it. One day, he was sure, there would be another war -- one day, the things that dwelt beyond the Edge would cross it in earnest, and his fortress would be the only safe haven. There were a number of human settlements scattered throughout the Other, and they would all fall under a concerted attack. Jary’s fleet could evacuate them, and bring them here.

“What are you making?” the Memory asked, and jarringly, its voice was beginning to sound more like Sharley’s, deepening from the childlike cadence that had been peculiar to the Memories.

“A sword,” he said, reaching for a hammer. “Obviously.” Unless he was much mistaken, Sharley would need this, possibly sooner rather than later.

For eons, he had been the only one who could even touch the weapon of his office, but Sharley, like it or not, was his daughter. He forged a shard of his own sword into this one, as well as a strand of long blue hair he had found stuck to his cloak when they returned from Aman. She was her own creature, with her own unique power, but half of her had come from him -- given proper channel, she could wield his as well. She was bafflingly attached to Earth, and would do all she could to protect it, so she may as well have the tools.

“Will you use it on me?” the Memory asked -- and then, more shrewdly, “ _Could_ you?”

He paused, and eyed the thing dispassionately. “You are not my daughter,” he said, “no matter what you look like. Would it work, I would cleave your head from your shoulders now.”

He was not adept at reading expressions, so he could not divine the thing’s now. “But I _am_ your daughter,” it said, “in a sense. You made the Memories, and they made me. I owe you my existence as much as Sharley does.”

“Technicalities,” he said dismissively. “You are an abomination.”

“So is she,” it said, its flat eyes boring into his. “She didn’t ask to be what she is, and _neither did I_.”

Azarael came perilously close to actively recoiling. Sharley had said that very thing to him, many times, and just as vehemently. This thing -- did this thing have _emotions_?

“I don’t want to be this, Azarael,” he said, and oh, how it sounded like Sharley. “I want _life_. I want to be something else. I’m as much your fault as those who made me, and you just want to get rid of your mess. I can think and feel and want, but I’m the result of everything you did wrong. I’m not Sharley, and for that you would kill me.”

To that he could say nothing, but he did not need to; the sound of hooks firing into the ground told him Jary had arrived.

\--

Lorna, having slept all day, was restless and annoyed. Elrond took pity on her and moved her to a bigger room, one in which she could actually fit armchairs, probably knowing that he wouldn’t be able to keep visitors out for long, so they might as well be able to sit down comfortably.

Mairead had brought Lorna her laptop, charged at the DMA and fiddled with by the electropaths to extend the battery life, as well as her big CD of DVD’s. Lorna decided to be slightly evil and inflict ’80’s fantasy on Thranduil, who had managed to steal some time for her now that most of the new people were asleep. Much of it looked like it had been made on drugs even to a human, so God knew what _he’d_ make of it.

“All right, allanah,” she said, shifting the laptop and snuggling closer to him, head rested against his chest. “Get ready for the most surreal thing you’ve ever seen.”

“What’re you inflicting on him?”

Lorna twitched. “God _dammit_ , Sharley, you’re as bad as an Elf.” The woman had appeared in the doorway with her customary silence, a surly Fëanor beside her. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, and quite honestly, so did she. There was a story behind that, Lorna was sure, but she’d ask later.

“ _Labyrinth_ ,” she said.

Sharley’s eyebrows rose. “‘Surreal’ is right,” she said. “I haven’t seen that movie in twenty years. Mind if we join you? I’d love to see what this asshole thinks of it.”

Oh dear… “Why not?” Lorna knew Thranduil would probably rather have his eye teeth pulled out than voluntarily spend time in the same room as Fëanor, but he’d live. No matter how much Thranduil hated him -- and with very good reason -- the fact remained that they were stuck with him, so they had to at least tolerate each other. It would be hard as hell, especially as Fëanor really did seem like something of a gobshite even now, but the pair of them were likely going to be too bemused to hate one another in very short order.

She had to shift the laptop so they could all see it...and almost immediately, the comments began.

“That is a terribly unrealistic owl,” Thranduil said.

“It was the Eighties,” Lorna said, “CGI was still a new thing.” She laughed. “Just wait ’till you see some’v the clothes. If you thought the fashion in _Terminator_ was bad...I don’t know what in bloody hell we were thinking, back then.”

“Neither do I,” Sharley muttered. “Punk was fun, though. Spent some time in Britain then. Lotta people I met wanted my hair.”

Lorna looked at her. “Were _you_ responsible for that trend?”

“Probably partly,” Sharley said. “Baby Jennifer Connelly. Look how young she was.”

“That dress is not like now,” Fëanor said, eying the vaguely medieval gown the girl wore.

“You know, that always bugged me,” Lorna said, as girl and dog raced home in a downpour. “Her parents don’t approve’v her imaginary shite, but she’s a teenager with no job -- _she_ didn’t go buying that dress. Hardly fair for a parent to bitch about something they enabled.”

“Hush,” Thranduil said.

“She’s got a point,” Sharley muttered. “Her normal outfit’s aged okay, but the mom’s pure Eighties.”

“You hush, too,” Thranduil said.

For a time there was quiet, while on screen Sarah threw a strop, and then --

“That is _not_ what goblins look like,” Thranduil said, his tone caustic. “Were they true goblins, the petulant girl and the baby would already be eaten.”

“I thought we were meant to hush,” Lorna said, giving him a pointed look. He arched an eyebrow at her, but said nothing.

When the Goblin King arrived, however, both he and Fëanor made identical sounds of consternation. “That _hair_ ,” he said, staring.

Lorna cackled. “Great, isn’t it? That’s about as Eighties as it gets. I bet I could do that with your hair.”

“Don’t you dare,” he said, glowering at her.

“Can it, both of you,” Sharley said. “They’re headed to the Underground -- you’ll see why this movie is so trippy.”

“That hair is trippy itself,” Thranduil said, and such a modern word was weirdly hilarious, coming from him.

“What is that?” Fëanor asked, eying Hoggle the goblin.

“The wonder of prosthetics,” Sharley said. “Shh.”

They managed to make it to the Wise Man without much comment, but upon first sight of him, Thranduil simply said, “No.”

The riddling door-knockers elicited surprisingly little reaction, but when Sarah fell down the oubliette, Thranduil said, “Whose idea was it to have an adolescent girl groped by so many disembodied hands?”

Lorna dissolved into helpless laughter. “Just wait,” she said. “Just _wait_.”

“Why do I not like the sound of that?” he asked.

“Because you’re smart.”

Things managed to proceed more or less quietly again, until they reached the Goblin King in his throne room.

“That is a terrible way to sit on a throne,” Thranduil said. “A king ought to have more dignity. And if he is King of the goblins, why is he not a goblin himself? It makes no _sense_.”

Lorna elbowed him. “Did I or did I not say it was trippy?”

“Evidently,” he muttered. “Oh Eru, there’s music.”

Lorna sat up and looked at Sharley. “You remind me of the babe.”

Sharley, bless her, picked it up immediately. “What babe?”

“The babe with the power,” Lorna sent back.

“What power?”

“The power of voodoo.” Oh, Thranduil’s expression was _priceless_. She’d never seen such incredulity on him, and that was really, really saying something.

“Who do?”

“You do.”

“Do what?”

“Remind me of the babe.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, Lorna caught Fëanor staring at them, wide-eyed. She gave him a grin she was quite certain was rather evil, and when Sharley sang, “Dance, magic dance,” she instead sang, “Pants, magic pants,” and again dissolved into laughter. To her immense surprise, Sharley actually joined her, muttering _pants, magic pants_ under her breath.

Elrond chose that moment to appear in the doorway. “ _What_ are you doing?”he demanded, though he seemed somewhat mollified to find Lorna still in her bed. That didn’t last, however, once he caught sight of Fëanor -- his eyes narrowed, but a glance at Sharley kept him where he was.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Thranduil said dryly. “In truth, I am not sure I believe it myself.”

“Did he just throw that baby?” Fëanor asked, staring at the laptop.

“It was just a doll,” Sharley said.

Elrond shook his head, muttering in Sindarin, and left them to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t seen _Labyrinth_ , you really should. It’s one of the weirdest, trippiest, ‘how on _Earth_ did this ever get made and what were they on when they made it?’ movies you’ll ever see in your life, and includes David Bowie in some terrifyingly 80’s fashion and criminally tight pants.
> 
> Title means “Plans and Worries” in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my starving brain. Om nom nom.


	61. Créachta agus Aisghabháil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Sharley is busy (and Fëanor has food for thought), Lorna is severely annoyed that she’s not capable of wanting to shag her husband without twitching, and the village gets its farm on.

The storm lasted a full week, but in that time, much was done. Not that Lorna knew of most of it, given that she’d been kept under what felt like house-arrest, but last night, the final night of her medical incarceration, she’d actually been allowed to spend in her own bed, plastered against Thranduil’s side like a cat. She woke before he did, and spent a moment looking at his fixed, zombie-like sleep-stare. It remained creepy as all hell, but it had long since ceased disturbing her. Too much.

Not so long ago, she would have woken him with a kiss, and it angered her that she couldn’t do it now. She’d quite enjoyed her intimate life with her dead sexy husband, but thanks to Von bloody Ratched, she still couldn’t stomach the thought. She so wanted to kiss her husband, but she already knew what she would feel if she actually did.

So instead she rested her head on his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart. He’d have to get up soon enough, and she’d finally be able to get up with him.

She wanted to kiss her husband -- or rather, she wanted to _want_ to kiss her husband. Lorna knew he truly would never judge her if she couldn’t ever do it again, but she wasn’t willing to accept it herself. It was not, however, something she could overcome on her own, and she didn’t yet know where to turn for help.

Not that there was time right now anyway, but when things settled down, she wanted this dealt with. She’d quite enjoyed perving on him, and she wanted to be able to enjoy it again. Until she met Thranduil and he’d literally fucked her senseless, she never would have thought she’d be attracted to someone so pale, or so blond, or so pretty. Liam had been a more rugged sort, and normally her preferred form of eye-candy.

Part of her felt guilty she’d moved on so fast, but it really wasn’t fully her doing: Thranduil had been so perfect throughout her misery of a pregnancy that she couldn’t _not_ fall in love with him. It was entirely his fault, dammit.

Would she have loved him so soon, if not for the twins? She had no idea, but she doubted it -- she’d known Liam for two years before they actually got together. It would have happened with Thranduil eventually, she was sure; the twins just...sped things up a bit. He could be aggravating and occasionally creepy, but he loved her with a purity that occasionally still surprised her -- loved _her_ , with all of her flaws, wholly and without reserve. Few people people in the world could likely claim that.

“You are staring, Firieth Dithen,” he said, blinking.

“Yup,” she said, unashamed. “I love you, Thranduil. Sometimes I don’t say that enough.”

He looked surprised, but not at all displeased. “Gi melin, Firieth Dithen,” he said, brushing back her fringe. “It means ‘I love you’ in Sindarin. Were I any proper husband, I would call you meleth-nin, yet it seems a lesser endearment than Firith Dithen.”

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“It means ‘my love’, and yet it seems,” he cast about for wards, “too common. Unfitting. Firieth Dithen applies only to you.”

It was bizarre and sweet all at once -- rather like Thranduil himself.

“That’s a bit why you’re my Drag Queen Barbie,” she said, giving him a grin and tucking a strand of his pale hair behind his ear, “and my allanah, even if part’v that doesn’t fit. It means ‘little dear one’, but you’re not exactly little.”

“There are few you could call ‘little’,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “The twins, for now. Even your brother and sister are taller.”

Lorna’s eyes narrowed. “Hush, you,” she said, poking the tip of his nose. “I’ll bite your kneecaps off.”

“I would still be taller than you,” he pointed out.

“Not by much. Do Elf kids ever do that thing where you tie your shoes to your knees and sort’v run about on them like that?”

The look he gave her was so mystified that she burst out laughing, resting her head against his chest. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” she said. “Just wait, the twins’ll do it.”

“Never change, Firieth Dithen. Now let me up -- I must see to our newcomers, and ensure Fëanor is sufficiently annoyed.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said, rising with some difficulty.

\--

To Thranduil’s relief, the lembas worked, more or less. It was not so fortifying as it was when made from its true ingredients, and one had to eat a full piece each day, but it kept his people, guests and residents, somewhat comfortable.

By the end of that week Lorna was released from her convalescence, and the farming could begin in earnest. It was too early to plant much, but Sharley said that would (temporarily) be no problem.

So all his able-bodied residents were now in the fields, under a sun that seemed glad for a chance to shine again. There was still fuel for what the villagers called tractors, so for now the ploughing was not so onerous a task.

Lorna was under orders not to strain herself, so her sister watched her like a hawk when he was unavailable. Bridie, who sat with the twins on their leashes, helped as well, unafraid to call out criticism to her, him, and everyone else within earshot.

It was...strange, doing this. Long, long ago, when he was very young, his father had had him work with the farmers of Doriath for a season, so that he might understand the lives of those who were not noble. At that point there had been no inkling that he might one day be a king, but there was a divide between those who toiled and those who did not.

It had been a highly illuminating experience, and one that he and Anameleth had repeated every so often. It had simultaneously elated and terrified their subjects, for they feared making some mistake, though Thranduil was not yet the cold creature he would become, and Anameleth was too sweet to take any but him and Legolas to task over anything.

This, of course, was different, and not only because his fellows were Edain. The tractor, occasionally belching unpleasant fumes, could plough a field far more swiftly than even a group of Elves, leaving them easily planted.

The twins worked with him and Lorna at clearing away weeds, watching it. “Such a wonder,” Elladan said, “and yet it fouls the air.”

“Few of the things the Edain have invented come with no flaws,” Thranduil said. “They have had no magic for a thousand years; they have had to make do with what mundane tools and objects they had at their disposal. Should we have the chance, I would like to see what might be done about that.”

“What’re you saying?” Lorna asked, tossing a handful of grass and chokeweed into a plastic bucket. She had dirt smeared across her face from shoving her hair out of her eyes over and over, and it was all he could do not to wipe it off with his sleeve. 

“That your people’s ingenuity has brought you far, yet is also poisoning the air,” he said, reflecting that he really needed to start teaching her Sindarin, as soon as they had the time.

Lorna snorted. “You’ve no idea,” she said, yanking another clump of weeds. Amusingly -- and, to Thranduil, rather adorably -- she was sitting on the ground, cross-legged, moving a bit each time she’d cleared an area. “If you think it’s bad enough, you should’ve seen it a hundred and fifty-odd years ago. Christ, even in nineteen fifty-two, there was a fog in London so poisonous it killed something like twelve thousand people.”

All three Elves stared at her. “London is a city?” Elladan asked, and when she nodded, he blinked. “ _How?_ How can fog be poisoned?”

“Coal,” Lorna said. “Before electricity, it was the main way people heated things -- couldn’t keep using wood, not when so much’v it had been hacked down over the centuries and they wanted to preserve what was left. It burns hot and keeps burning, but it’s filthy stuff, and polluted the air like nothing else ever had.”

“Then why was it used?” Elladan asked.

“We didn’t have anything else yet. And we couldn’t make the ‘anything else’ without the coal. After the fog, as many people switched to electricity as they could -- except that back then, if you didn’t live near a river, _that_ was generated by coal.”

The thought was disturbing even to Thranduil, who knew far more of Ennor than the twins. “How did your people ever crawl out of such a morass?”

“Honestly?” Lorna said, “birth control. People having smaller families meant there wasn’t such a drain on the resources. Before then, people might have ten, twelve, even sixteen kids, then couldn’t feed them enough, everyone got sick, and half’v them might die. Apparently keeping it in your pants just wasn’t something people did back then.” She gave Thranduil a somewhat pointed look, and all he could do was smirk.

“ _Sixteen children?_ ” Elrohir looked downright appalled.

“That was always assuming the mother didn’t die in childbirth somewhere along the way,” Lorna said. “Happened all the time, back in the day. And child mortality -- I read about this family that had seven kids, and then scarlett fever hit the area and they lost five’v them in a little over a month. Back then, even if I’d survived the twins’ birth -- and that would’ve been a big ‘if’ -- they would’ve died.” She eyed the three of them. “There’s a website I’ll show you, once we’ve got time -- post-mortem photographs. Photography was expensive back then, so taking a picture’v your dead loved one might be the only picture you had. Morbid as hell now, but at that time it was better than nothing. You have to understand, back then, medicine didn’t really exist. You could catch a cold, have it turn into pneumonia, and die. People were weird and morbid, because with lives like that, how could they not be? It wasn’t until we discovered hygiene that those rates went down.”

“What is hygiene?” Elrohir asked, kneeling beside her to pull weeds.

Lorna snorted. “Washing your hands. Boiling your water, back before modern systems treated it. It’s amazing what people can get done when they’re not shitting themselves to death from dysentery. A hundred-odd years later we learned how to replace every organ short’v the brain.”

“ _Organs?_ ” Elladan asked, kneeling beside his brother. “Where do you get them?”

“Dead people,” Lorna said blithely. “Some people choose to donate their healthy organs when they die, so someone with a crap one can get it replaced. Now they can make artificial hearts, though not everyone’s able to get one.”

Even Thranduil had not heard of some of this. He knelt across from her. “When did C-sections begin?” he asked. “It is how the twins were born,” he added in explanation, looking at the twins. “They cut a woman open, remove the baby from her womb, and sew her up again. Somehow, this works.”

Both twins stared at him, and he fought the urge to smirk. They had not been here long enough to fully comprehend just how far the Edain had come, and in so short a time.

“You know, I don’t know,” Lorna said. “I mean, I know they’ve been performed for ages, but it wasn’t until the nineteen fifties that the survival rate became anything like decent. I do know that they leave one hell’v a scar.” Given that she had no shame, she lifted her shirt, unzipped her jeans, and showed the twins the long, clean scar that ran nearly from hip to hip. “That, and the recovery sucked, but it certainly beats, y’know, dying.”

“We saw wonders, in the DMA,” Elrohir said, while Lorna rearranged her clothing, “but I do not think Adar knows of all this. We certainly didn’t.”

“Blow his mind,” Lorna said, grinning. “Pretty sure he’ll enjoy it.”

“Firieth Dithen, I do love you so,” Thranduil said, leaning forward to kiss heir brow.

\--

Sharley was busy, which meant Fëanor was trapped with her -- but for once, he didn’t overly mind. She had taken him and numerous baskets to a leafless apple orchard, and was doing...whatever it was she did.

He had to grudgingly admit it was rather fascinating. She called it winding Time -- she would touch a tree and it would go through bloom, leaf, and harvest within a few minutes, and then they would pick. The yield was not precisely plentiful -- Ireland, so she said, was not an ideal place to grow apples -- but it was far better than nothing. 

They would carry each basket back to the Halls, leaving them beside the doorway for others to collect and bring to the kitchens, returning the empty baskets as they went. Thranduil could bake his lembas with apples now, to break up the monotony.

“How long will this take?” he asked, lifting a basket.

“Four or five days,” she said, demonstrating with her fingers. It was odd, just how naturally she signed things for him to clarify her speech. “Then we join the farming.”

“Oh, joy,” he deadpanned. He had always been a smith, a crafter, not a farmer. Crops and pastoral countryside were not for him, but he knew already Sharley would not let him off. That he should need for her to let him do anything was galling.

“What, you’d rather I sent you back to Mandos?” she asked, lifting her own basket.

Oddly enough, the answer was no. The Halls of Mandos were tranquil, peaceful, and he was neither. Much in Ennor might be aggravating, including some of his current companions, but it was so very fascinating. Once the storm died, he fully intended to drive again, whether or not he had an excuse they would deem valid. Perhaps he would teach his great-grandsons, should Elrond allow it. There had not been time to speak to any of them, thanks to Thranduil’s idiocy, but that would change.

He thought, idly, of the strange thing -- movie -- they had watched last night. It had been beyond bizarre, and he pondered that the Bog of Eternal Stench could prove a double-edged sword: yes, your enemies would stink forever, but you would have to smell them any time they were remotely near. But then, he could not imagine anyone with such hair being an overly effective leader.

Still, the mere concept of movies, of television, intrigued him greatly. Every time one or another of these Edain began to annoy him too much, he reminded himself that they had created wonders of a sort he could only dream of -- and they’d done it alone, without the aid of elves or dwarves. For creatures with such short lifespans, they had accomplished what he would have thought impossible.

 _Including breed like rabbits_ , he thought, a touch sourly. Sharley had told him there were nearly eight billion Edain in Ennor -- a number that meant nothing to him until they worked out that during his lifetime, there had been fewer than a million Elves, and eight billion was eight thousand times that. And yet none of the Edain he had seen thus far had more than three children, so _how?_

It was not a question he would pose to Sharley, that was for certain. Sooner or later he would divine it for himself.

When they reached the door, he saw Lorna’s brother and sister waiting, each bearing an empty basket nearly as tall as they were. The pair of them unsettled him, largely because they so openly, unashamedly leered at him, often talking to one another in a tongue with which he was unfamiliar. He didn’t need to understand the words to guess their content, and never in his life had he been so blatantly objectified before. Neither of them had yet tried to _touch_ him, thank Eru, but he was convinced that sooner or later one would -- and that if he retaliated, Sharley would make him very unhappy.

“You two, go get some proper boots and get out there,” Sharley ordered, evidently taking pity on him. “You’re tougher than most, I’d bet.”

“You’re no fun,” the man said, and privately, Fëanor had to agree. Nevertheless, he did everything short of shoo them away himself -- yet he was still conscious of two pairs of eyes on his backside. _Edain._

“It’s your own fault,” Sharley said, when they emerged back into the sunshine. “If you’d quit wearing leather pants, they’d quit staring at your ass. In case you hadn’t noticed, half the women and some of the men stare at your ass. It’d be hilarious if it wasn’t so creepy.”

“You don’t,” he pointed out. No, he didn’t want her to, but her total indifference really was rather insulting.

“I don’t stare at _anyone’s_ ass,” she said. “What makes you so special?”

“You have a daughter,” he said, more than a little imperiously. “You must have had a husband.”

She halted, and the glare she bent on him would have made a lesser person quail. Even he nearly recoiled, realizing far too late how staggeringly insensitive that had been -- for only now did he recall that her daughter was in the past tense.

“If you ever,” she said, low and terrible, “bring up Marty again, I will rip out your goddamn heart and _eat it_. You can’t even _imagine_ what I went through, watching her die.” Her eyes sparked, fire in their mismatched depths, fire and pain he had seen all too often already.

Fëanor had no idea what to say to that; what came out surprised even him. “I killed my son,” he said, his voice ragged. “I would ask that you not read that part of my history. My youngest sons were twins, Amrod and Amras, and Amras was determined to return to Aman for the rest of those I had raised in rebellion. I did not know he was in one of the ships when I set them afire.” The words were mixed with Quenya, his English insufficient to convey his confession. He had spoken of this to no one, not even in the Halls of Mandos, and had it been his own will, he would not have done so now.

Enough of that must have been comprehensible, for the ire left her eyes. “I didn’t see that,” she said. “You have a lotta history to read, so I don’t have anywhere near all of it.” She paused. “Have you seen your sons, in the Halls of Mandos?”

Fëanor shook his head. “They were all released to Aman millennia ago. They and my wife have no wish to see me.” He could not fault Nerdanel -- not after how easily, thoughtlessly he cast her aside, and for what? Because she disagreed with him? Could she have wed again since, in Aman? While he had not promised to remain in Námo’s care until the end of days, if the Valar had any mercy, they would free her from him. It was nothing less than either of them would deserve.

Sharley regarded him steadily. “Maybe,” she said, “once you’ve done your job here, and it’s all over -- maybe they will. You have a lot to atone for, but Námo wouldn’t have sent you with me if he didn’t think you could.”

She had said as much before, but even yet Fëanor was unable to believe her. For what he had done, there was no redemption. To lead the slaughter of so many of his own people -- there was no atoning for it. All his sons, dead upholding his mad quest, swearing a vow unbreakable, and for what? Yes, the Silmarils were a wonder of creation, but why in Eru’s name had he thought them worth the lives of his people? Why had he bound his children to an oath that took them all, in the end?

Why would _anyone_ think he could atone for that?

Sharley was not a telepath, and yet somehow she seemed to read his mind. “C’mon,” she said. “Let me tell you a story.”

He followed her, wondering what she could possibly have to say.

“My father is the god of death,” she said, hoisting her basket onto her shoulder, leaving her with a free hand to sign. “About six hundred years ago, for some damn reason, he decided to get married. Don’t ask me _why_ ,” she snorted. “He’s not like living people, he had no reason to want to. Anyway, he goes to Earth -- Ennor -- picks some minor Greek princess, and brings her back with him. She thought she was getting a sweet deal -- the Other didn’t look then like it does now, it was beautiful, and she was immortal, and for the first hundred years, it seemed to work.

Fëanor understood enough of that to be getting on with. “Go on.”

“The problem, and it became an increasingly _big_ problem, was that Az didn’t know how to be a husband. Not unreasonably, she actually, y’know, wanted to spend _time_ with him, and got increasingly pissed off that he ignored her. She also got increasingly insane, because when humans stop being humans, it doesn’t end well. While Az was busy ignoring her, she was busy basically inventing sorcery, because of course he had to pick a brilliant one.” She glanced sidewise at Fëanor. “Brilliant people can be damn dangerous when they’re bored.”

He arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Anyway, eventually she gets powerful enough and crazy enough to say ‘fuck it’, set up her own fortress, and go to war against him, Jary, and Tanya. Jary evacuated as many of the humans as she could, and a lotta the rest took cover, but not all of them.”

She sighed. “It lasted two weeks. Two weeks was all it took to turn the Other into what it is now. She invented weapons that wouldn’t be thought up here for centuries, and between them and magic the war killed most of the world, and left the rest very slowly dying.”

“How did it end?” Fëanor asked, morbidly curious.

“Azarael,” Sharley said. “He took his sword, and he used it, and as a result there were Memories, and things worse than Memories. The Other was all but destroyed, and all because he just had to go get married.”

“He blames himself for this?”

“Everyone does. If he’d paid even half an ounce of attention, he would’ve seen she was up to something. He made her immortal and it drove her insane, and he couldn’t even see that. We don’t sleep, y’see,” she said. “Trust me, that takes getting used to. We don’t breathe unless we want to, we don’t have heartbeats, and she never did adapt to that.”

“Why?” Fëanor could understand it would be unpleasant, but one could adapt, surely.

Sharley looked at him, and her eyes glittered in the sunlight. “Because to make her immortal, he had to kill her first. She wasn’t the same sorta abomination I am, Fëanor, but she was close. And even when everything seemed bright and new, she never forgave him for it. And even though I blame her for almost everything else, I can’t blame her for that.”

All right, Fëanor could well understand _that_. To be made what Sharley was...no.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

“Because ever since then, Azarael’s done what he could to fix it,” she said. “No, the Other isn’t any _better_ yet, but he’s kept it from getting worse, and it’s only been four hundred years. To him, that’d be about half a breath, if he actually breathed. Just because redemption seems impossible doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try, and you both have a long-ass time to try. You’ll never know unless you do.”

To that he said nothing, though he knew he would think on it, whether he wanted to or not.

\--

Lorna was quite annoyed at having to take so many breaks, but take them she did, sitting beside Gran with the twins. It wasn’t fair -- she had Thranduil, Siobhan, Mick, Mairead, _and_ Gran babysitting her.

But she let them anyway, sitting on the sun-warmed grass while her children crawled over her, intent on their unknown games. Given that they had two telepaths for parents, would they be as well? And if so, how strong? Paired with her complexion, their white-blonde hair made them look slightly unreal. Add in the points on their tiny ears and...well, she was glad there were other magical people in the world, so they wouldn’t grow up feeling _too_ different.

They had yet to make any real _noise_ , however. At first they had babbled, but that had dried up, more or less. Thranduil said Elf children could speak in clear sentences within a year, but somehow she doubted that would happen with the twins.

They both stared up at her with their big green eyes, Saoirse tugging on her braid while Shane chewed on the end of it until she freed it from his grasp. He scowled up at her with an awareness far too keen for a five-month-old.

“You’ll live,” she said, though she dreaded the day they started teething. Mairead had said that was the worst part, right up until the kid learned the word ‘no’. To Lorna’s recollection, it had certainly been Mick’s second-favorite (the first, naturally, being ‘fuck’).

_No fair._

Lorna blinked. That thought had most definitely not been her own. “Yes it is,” she said, poking the end of her son’s nose. “It’s dirty. Not for you to chew on.”

_Tasty._

She stared down at him, and he stared up at her. _Is this why you don’t talk?_

_Why talk? Noise is stupid. Don’t need it._

_What about you?_ she asked Saoirse, who yawned.

_Sleepy. Fuck._

Lorna burst out laughing. Yes, these two were her children, all right. _Thranduil_ , she called, _take a break. I know why our kids don’t make much noise_.

Over he came, weaving through the busy line of weeders, his hair all but glowing in the sunlight. “What is it?” he asked, sitting before her.

“Telepathy,” she said. “Shane said making noise is stupid. Saoirse said she was sleepy. Then she said ‘fuck’.”

“Well they’ve certainly been listening to you,” Thranduil said dryly.

“And the rest’v the bloody village,” Gran snorted.

“You truly are a vulgar people,” he said, but he sounded pleased.

Lorna laughed. “You have no idea. At least Saoirse’s second word was ‘fuck’. It was my first.”

“I am entirely unsurprised, Firieth Dithen,” Thranduil said, and kissed her brow.

\--

Lorna was so pleased by the events of the day that she decided tonight she’d try to kiss her husband. Nothing more, not yet, but a kiss, a real kiss. She was not going to let this be poisoned for her, dammit.

It never ceased to touch her that Thranduil went to bed when she did, though he had far less need for sleep. He’d hold her until she fell asleep, and then he would read, catching up on pop culture through whatever novels he’d been given.

He seemed content to do just that, but she levered herself up onto her elbows, looking down at him. “I want to test something,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. 

“Oh?” he asked, setting his book aside.

Running her hand over his chest brought no negative reactions; his skin was warm and smooth. He smelled, as ever, of something spicy and rich, and she utterly ignored how creepy she was being when she leaned down to sniff his hair. She leaned down to kiss him -- softly at first, while he gently twined a strand of her hair between his fingers.

At first, there was no problem -- it was sweet and affectionate and chaste, but as soon as she tasted him, as soon as desire started stirring within her, she broke away, horrified. Horrified, and infuriated -- with Von Ratched, with herself, her skin crawling so badly she nearly screamed.

“Lorna. _Lorna_.” Thranduil sat up, gathering her to him.

“Jesus, I thought -- just -- _Christ_ ,” she growled, clawing at her hair.

Thranduil caught her hands, very gently. “Lorna, I know you wish to move past this, but I would not have you make things worse in the attempt.”

“The longer I let it sit, the worse it’ll get,” she said, more harshly than she intended. “I wish I’d been the one to kill him. I’d have some fucking _closure_ then, but I _didn’t_ \-- I can’t hurt him now, and he --” Words failed her, but fury did not; she pulled free of Thranduil’s embrace, crawled off the bed, and promptly smashed the nearest thing to hand -- an empty crystal decanter. The shatter did little to calm the heat of her rising ire.

“I’ve never been that fucking _powerless_ ,” she snarled, seizing a metal goblet and hurling it at the wall so hard the rim dented. “ _Ever_. You can’t even imagine what it was like, fighting -- fighting _that_ \-- and losing. No matter what I did, I fucking _lost_.”

Thranduil rose, crossing the floor to her. He took her hands again, looking down at with compassion and no small amount of worry. “Lorna, you must speak to Sveta,” he said, “when you can.”

“No,” Lorna said. “She wouldn’t get it, either. She -- I --”

He ran his hand through her hair, soothing, and she felt a wisp of calm uncoil through her mind. It infuriated her yet further, but only for a moment; in the next, it spread. “You will deal with this, Lorna,” he said. “We will deal with this, but not tonight. Rest, Firieth Dithen.”

He led her back to the bed, drawing her down with him and pulling her close. “He has not won, Firith Dithen, nor will he. We will find a way through this.”

Lorna could not imagine how, but she was too tired to say so. Sleep was pulling at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Lorna. Sharley had a pretty good idea what to do about that whole problem, and Thranduil’s not going to like it. At all.
> 
> While Amras didn’t die in the published _Silmarillion_ , he did die in one of Tolkien’s drafts, and quite honestly, I like that idea better. Shades of things to come, with Fëanor’s children.
> 
> Title means “Wounds and Recovery” in Irish. As ever, your reviews give me warm fuzzies, and will hopefully kill my latest round of headaches.


	62. Maireachtáil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter took forever, but I’d got most of it done and then discovered I’d written in a gaping plot hole that couldn’t be fixed without basically rewriting it. At least it’s a nice long one.

In which Lorna tests her abilities, the people of Kirk bond with those of Lasgaelen, and neither Azarael nor Bridie are happy, if for very different reasons.

Lorna woke the next morning still feeling weary, but it was not physical weariness. How long was what that son of a bitch did going to haunt her? Yes, it had been less than two months, but even that was bad enough. The storm was over; they could make time to deal with this now.

“I feel your anger,” Thranduil said, running his fingers through her hair. “Do not give in to the Dark Side.”

In spite of everything, Lorna laughed. “Introducing you to movies was a terrible idea,” she said, smiling against the side of his neck. “I’ve created a monster.”

“Yes, but at least I am a monster without the Goblin King’s hair,” he pointed out.

“I still maintain you could rock it,” she said, sitting up. “Thranduil, can you or Elladan and Elrohir or _someone_ teach me how to sword fight?” She had to bleed off this anger somehow, and wreaking telekinetic destruction was a no-go. There had been more than enough destruction as it was, but she could attack training dummies all she liked with a sword, and no harm done.

“We may start in the evenings, when we are done in the fields,” he said, sitting up and kissing her brow. “Provided you still have any energy.”

“I’ll make some,” she said, a touch darkly. She really didn’t know what else to do; short of resurrecting Von Ratched and killing him again, how was she ever to gain any closure? It had been easier during the storm, when she was busy, when she was riding the high of her own power.

Her own power. Maybe sword fighting wasn’t what she needed. Maybe she had to truly flex her power, and see just what she had at her disposal. She could tear up the earth and fuck with people’s heads, but how strong _was_ she?

She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud until Thranduil said, “Stronger than you know, Firieth Dithen. I only wish I knew how best to test that.”

“Oh, trust me,” she said, digging through the mahogany wardrobe for clean clothes, “I’ll figure out something.”

\--

The DMA might not have publicly revealed itself , but it was already hard at work in secret.

Field hospitals found themselves with more supplies than they had thought, thanks to those gifted with transmutation. The electropaths snuck around and did what they had done for Lasgaelen, setting up infinite loops to light and heat what structures were left. Healers joined the ranks of ordinary doctors; aura-manipulators calmed everyone they could get their hands on. It was hardly a fix for the problem, but it certainly made it easier. It would, Miranda hoped, make the revelation of their existence less difficult to swallow. _Yes, we exist, and we’ve been helping you already._

The chloropaths had it slightly more difficult, because their Gift was not as easy to hide. A number of them had started growing food in secret, and hiding the extra within the shipments moved by aid workers.

The damage was bad, but not as bad as it might have been had the storm been more concentrated. The grid was down almost everywhere; there had been floods and fires and all manner of tornadoes and hurricanes, but the bones of civilization survived. The world had not been knocked back to pre-Industrial levels, fortunately, because even for the Gifted it would have been much harder. They could have _done_ it, but it would have taken more time.

It was, Miranda hoped, enough. The normals would see that the Gifted were allies, and useful ones at that. They needed the Gifted, right now, and hopefully any goodwill gained would stick. Gratitude, she knew, could have a damn short half-life, and their were plenty who would recognize how dangerous the Gifted could be, if they chose.

Then there would be the other contingent who would wonder why they hadn’t helped before now, in other disasters. They weren’t going to like the answer, either, but it was the only one Miranda had to give. The only way this had a prayer of working was if they were completely honest with the outside world. 

In any event, the grid was slaved up in as many places as it could be. They just had to get Bridie up to speed. Provided, of course, she cooperated. She didn’t want to be ordered around, which Miranda would have respected if it didn’t drive her up the wall.

\--

Azarael could not say he was _pleased_ to see Jary, for it would be an utter lie, but he was grudgingly grateful for her arrival.

“Well… _shit_ ,” she said, eying the Sharley-thing. She was as tall as it, her coppery skin a few shades darker than her hair, with eyes as grey as the sea that was no more. “Az, I can’t give life to something that was never alive to begin with.” This was not, he knew, any easier for her to deal with than it was for him; she, after all, was the one who had raised Sharley. “But if it thinks it’s gonna get actual life from eating Elves...yeah, that’s not gonna work, either.”

“Well, I cannot contain it forever,” he said irritably.

“I’m not an _it_ ,” the Sharlely-thing growled, pacing the narrow confines of its invisible cage. “I’m a _she_ , and I’m _hungry_.”

“Do you think it will starve?” he asked, ignoring the creature. “Perhaps it will fade.” He didn’t believe it, though he wanted to. Memories did not operate under any known laws of the universe, and this thing, whatever it wished to become, was still a Memory. Even his sword was of no use against it, because it was neither living nor living dead.

Jary shook her head. “It’s not gonna go away unless we do something about it. If we get Tanya, the three of us might be able to trap it somewhere long-term.”

Oh, joy. Azarael was even less fond of Tanya than he was of Jary. The goddess of Undeath dwelt in the Other’s only swamp with a small army of undead children, and her fondness for bizarre mushrooms did nothing to endear her to him. Even Jary had _some_ measure of dignity about her, but Tanya was cheerfully, unrepentantly ridiculous. “We may as well take your ship,” he said. “It will take us far less time to go to her than to send word and wait for her to come to us.” He did not want to travel aboard her vessel; peace and quiet were not things readily available, and containing this creature would be more difficult, but it could be done.

“Let’s get this over with,” Jary said grimly. “The fact that that damn thing even exists makes me itch, and I’m not supposed to be _able_ to itch.”

\--

Lorna decided a great way to test her telekinesis would be to push the tractor with it, and let the driver steer. Thranduil had deep reservations about it, but after last evening, he knew better than to say so. He knew what it was, to need to reclaim one’s power; Eru knew he’d had to do it himself, once he had healed from the worst of the dragonfire. 

So he let her get on with it, and worked at planting with Elrond’s family, Mairead’s, and Big Jamie’s, keeping half an eye on poor Mick the Drunk (as he was called to differentiate him form Lorna’s brother, Little Mick.) He was trying to get a handle on his Gift, since Eru knew how useful it would be, but thus far he seemed only to be able to manage roses. As a result, the trees were festooned with them, their fragrance stirred with every errant breeze.

Sharley was of far more use; as soon as a section of field was planted and watered, she (and Fëanor, unfortunately) would pass along it, and up the seeds would grow -- wheat, or a tangle of beans, or bright squash. It wasn’t natural, but neither was Sharley. And poor Sharley seemed happy to be able to actually do something.

It was a relief to Thranduil, because he couldn’t keep feeding all his people and guests on lembas indefinitely. The guests, he thought, would be remaining a while; he could not in good conscience send them back out into the world while it was still such a mess. The elderly and the infirm would be a burden, and might well be neglected or mistreated.

How far he had come from the ellon who once cared only for his wife, and gone to the village merely to please her. The village had become his own, but never would he have thought he would shelter Edain about whom he knew nothing.

But it was, for now, the only real atonement he could make. His folly had rendered these strangers homeless, at least for a time. What in Eru’s name the would would be like when it rebuilt, he couldn’t guess, but at least the Gifted would make rebuilding possible. It was the only true comfort he had, when it came to what he had done.

“I don’t bloody fekkin’ think so!”

Bridie, he reflected, really did have a strident voice for a woman of her age. She sat again at the edge of the forest with the twins, who today were without their leashes. With her now was Miranda -- no wonder she was...displeased.

“Young lady, that is the worst idea I’ve ever heard in my entire flippin’ life,” the old lady said, rising to her feet. Are you out’v your mind? Your lot has to have someone who’s actually, y’know, _lived there all their lives_.”

“We do,” Miranda said, crossing her arms. “And there’s something wrong about all of them. You were born one of us, Bridie, and we need your help. You’re the only one I can’t think of _someone_ objecting to.”

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. If that was the case, the DMA must be populated by nothing save exceptionally odd people, moreso even than he had suspected.

“We give you some lessons and you’re golden. I don’t think there are many people in _any_ culture who can resist a strong-willed grandmother. We only have one shot at this, Bridie, and we have to do it right. You’ve lived through more shit than just about anyone but Thranduil.”

Thranduil had to hand it to her -- she well knew the human adage about honey and vinegar. Few people of any race were above flattery; even he had been susceptible to it, in days long past.

Bridie regarded Miranda with narrowed eyes. Both seemed to be unwilling to blink, which amused him to no end. “I won’t be anyone’s puppet,” Bridie said at last.

“I’d never ask you to be,” Miranda said. “If I wanted a puppet, I’d pick someone else. I trust you to handle any assholes that get in your face.”

Bridie smiled, and it was so terrifyingly like Lorna’s expression when she was about to make someone’s day much worse. “Fine,” she said. “But I do it my way.”

 _Eru help the world_ , Thranduil thought.

\----

Down in the kitchens of the Halls, Big Jamie wondered when this had become normal. 

He, Kevin, and Orla headed a small herd of cooks, mostly consisting of the codgers who couldn’t do much in the fields. They had apples and several kinds of wild berries, to give their lembas a little more variety. They’d mostly got the hang of cooking over a fire, helped immensely by Lord Thranduil and Bridie. The other pensioners were old, but not _that_ old; they might have stopped cooking on a woodstove decades ago, but Bridie had only recently put in an electric range.

Jamie, being Irish, desperately missed meat, but it didn’t look like they’d be getting _that_ back any time soon. The pensioners shook their heads and called the younger ones -- ‘younger’ meaning anyone under fifty -- spoiled, and in some ways they were right. Jamie hadn’t grown up hungry -- he’d had three decent meals a day. He’d never had to scrimp to feed his family, and while vacations were a rarity, at least he’d been able to take a few. They had a computer, and he and Orla had mobile phones...they weren’t wealthy, not by a long shot, but they had things even his parents had only dreamt of. And he was not the only one who had taken much of it for granted. While nobody was precisely impoverished in Lasgaelen, some were poorer than others, but even _they’d_ been comparatively spoiled.

The pensioners, those who had lived through World War II, didn’t seem to mind much at all. Rationing in Ireland had been nearly as Draconian in Britain, not helped by the fact that there hadn’t been too much to go around to begin with. They were adapting much easier than the younger ones, that was for damn sure. Oh, they missed their electricity, but they weren’t _pining_ for it.

They had their phones, and the means to charge them, but unsurprisingly the internet was down. Jamie had a feeling _everything_ was down, and wondered just what sort of nightmare the outside world was stuck with. It wasn’t a thought he _wanted_ , but it was there nonetheless. He almost felt guilty to have shelter and a reliable food source.

Somebody was going to have to go to the DMA to find out what the hell was going on out there. Knowing was better than wondering.

Near the furthest fireplace, a woman swore. Sammie was her name, one of those Sharley had brought. Those from Kirk had blended all but seamlessly with those from Lasgaelen; theirs had been a fishing community rather than a farming one, but their people were not unlike those of Lasgaelen. They were just as pragmatic, just as untrusting of city people, and possibly even more profane, which was something of a feat.

Sammie and her boyfriend had the idea to bring some of the Lasgaelener’s woodstoves down to make cooking somewhat easier, but setting them up was proving to be, as she put it, a royal bitch. They didn’t have anywhere near enough pipe to go up the chimney, but without it, it didn’t want to draw properly.

“Elladan and Elrohir could probably knock you something up,” Jamie said. “I’m sure the fields can spare them.”

“Would they even know how?” she grunted, swiping a frizzy curl out of her face. “If these guys had been here for God knows long, why the fuck didn’t they already have woodstoves? Hell, if they’re so smart, why didn’t they have electricity a few thousand years before us?”

“For the same reason they’re not the dominant species,” Kevin said, rolling out fresh dough. “Lord Thranduil said living forever made them bloody resistant to change. Their society was largely stagnant for thousands’v years. Though sure God did the shite they make’s made to last -- he gave my wife a blanket for Christmas that’s ten thousand years old.”

“Think it’d get boring, living forever,” Jackie said. She apparently ran a bar in Kirk, and had already made fast friends with Orla. A big, strapping lass she was, dark hair always kept in a ponytail and hazel eyes that had fixed on Siobhan, who was happily looking back. Poor Siobhan had never actually had a relationship -- being the only lesbian in town had put a damper on _that_ \-- so hopefully Jackie knew what she was on about. Otherwise this would get awkward in a hurry.

“The real question is, when do we get to go home?” Sammie asked. “Not that it isn’t fuckin’ beautiful here, because it is, but I’ve got a business to look after sooner or later.”

“No,” Martin said, grunting as he hauled over a ladder, “the _real_ question is if home’s even still there.”

Both women stared at him. “ _What?_ ” Jackie demanded.

“You think Sea Lady would’ve come to get us if she didn’t see something taking out the town?” he asked.

Rather dreadful silence followed that, a silence so unbearable Jamie had to break it. “Why d’you call her Sea Lady?”

“Because when we were kids, she came walking outta the sea,” Sammie said, though she looked downright stricken. “I saw her. I was only ten, and I didn’t know _what_ she was -- just that she had to be cold. Took a picture of her, actually -- normally hangs on the wall in the cafe, but I brought it with me.”

“What was she in the sea for?” Kevin demanded.

“Dunno,” Sammie said. “She was only with us a day, but she said she’d come back. I didn’t realize it’d be thirty-two years later. We know her name’s Sharley, but she’ll always be the Sea Lady.”

Had he seen her walking out of the sea, he probably would have legged it -- but he’d noticed, on the two occasions he’d seen her near children, they didn’t shy from her the way adults did. To them, for whatever reason, she wasn’t horrifying.

“Doesn’t she creep you out?” he asked.

“Why would she?” Jackie retorted. “She’s the Sea Lady. Sammie, quit fuckin’ with that thing and go get your picture.”

Off Sammie went, and Jamie shook his head, arranging his pastries on a tray. He’d popped them into the oven and started a new one by the time she returned, bearing a framed photograph. The colors were a touch faded, but it was in fact Sharley walking out of the surf, looking oh-so-very like a zombie against waves that glittered in the rising sunlight. Sammie must have been mad not to beat feet, seeing something like that. The beauty of the morning contrasted so horribly with, well, _Sharley_. Why anyone would hang _that_ up, he couldn’t guess.

“She was the most exciting thing that ever happened in Kirk,” Sammie said, when he asked. “Even if it was only us kids that saw her. Not much goes on in a place like Kirk.”

“Not much went on in Lasgaelen, either, until last year,” Jamie snorted.”We’ve always known Lord Thranduil was here, but he kept to his forest. Or so we though, anyway -- he’d been walking about at night for years, and by years I mean centuries. If you can’t go home -- if you’ve not got a home to go _to_ \-- he’ll take you in forever, if you want. If not, you can stay ’til your town’s rebuilt.”

“Why would he do that?” Martin asked.

“Place is huge, innit? It’s not like we’re cramped for space, normally. And it’s not like he tries to lord it over any’v us -- he’s just got a bit’v it going on now so he can actually keep something like order over all these extra other people. Normally he’s...well, I can’t say he’s quite like us, given he’s not human, but he doesn’t try to set himself apart, or better.”

“He calls himself king,” Kevin added, “but it’s mainly because he feels he’s got to protect us. He doesn’t order us around or anything -- we just usually do what he asks because it makes the most sense.”

“Then why do you call him Lord Thranduil?” Sammie asked, carefully setting the picture out of the way.

Jamie shrugged. “It was always part’v the legend. He was lord’v the Fair Folk, not us, but it’s so ingrained we don’t say one without the other.”

“And he makes a better bogeyman for kids if he’s called Lord,” Kevin added. “Word like that still has a bit’v a scary meaning to the Irish. You can imagine how we all reacted when he just came strolling into the pub one evening. I mean, we always knew he was there, but knowing and seeing aren’t the same thing.”

“Oh, I can imagine it, all right,” Sammie laughed. “Sea Lady and that other giant Elf came tromping in at closing time, just like she’d never left. He was a surly fucker.”

“Still is,” Jamie snorted. “Dunno how she can stand having him shadow her like that. Though watching Lorna’s brother and sister stare at his arse is pretty entertaining. I’d say I don’t know how they dare, but they’re related to her, and the three’v them’re so alike it’s scary.”

“Can’t understand a damn thing any of them say,” Martin said with a snort. “ I mean, at first I had a hard time with all of you, but those three, goddamn.”

Kevin burst out laughing. “Sometimes, we have to just nod and fake it. Especially when Lorna was first tending bar.”

“I miss _my_ bar,” Jackie said wistfully. “I miss my house. It was tiny and the plumbing sucked, but it was _mine_. It’s beautiful here and all, but you can tell it wasn’t made for humans.”

“I know,” Jamie sighed. “Trust me, I know. Well, if your own village got leveled, you lot can stay in Lasgaelen, when we move back topside. Village used to be a lot bigger, thirty years ago, before all the young people started leaving for the city as soon as they were old enough.”

“The more, the merrier,” Kevin added. “We’ll look after you lot.”

\----

Bridie was not happy.

Her crash-course through three thousand years of DMA history was actually rather interesting; what she was being asked to do was just aggravating. That she was sitting in an office crammed with stacks of books and several guns didn’t help.

“Julifer, if you shove that stack’v cue cards at me one more time, I’ll fetch you such a slap,” she said, glowering at the woman. “I thought you wanted me to do this as me.”

“ _Miranda_ wants you to do this as you; _I’d_ rather you not start World War III, so I’m assisting you. I even gave up the purple,” she added, a little mournfully. Her hair was now jet black, which at least went with her complexion. 

Bridie eyed her. “It’s wash-out dye, isn’t it?”

“Oh, hush,” Julifer said sourly. “Not the point.”

Bridie quirked an eyebrow. “I already don’t want to do this,” she said. “I only agreed because Miranda said I could do it my own way. I want a chloropath, a healer, and one’v those people that turns things into other things.”

“Transmutation,” Julifer said.

“That. If I’m going to go before God and everyone, I want to show what it is we do, and what we’ve _been_ doing all this time.”

She had a point, and Julifer was forced to concede it, for all she didn’t like it. The compromise was that the full laundry list of Gifts not be laid out yet -- they really didn’t need to know about the ones that could influence the mind, meaning empathy and aura-manipulation. (With Von Ratched dead, Lorna was the only known telepath, so they weren’t going to mention _that_ one at all.) Likewise, Gifts like Miranda’s verbal compulsion, would stay swept under the rug for now.

The world might get a kick out of the people that could fly, but that one was so draining they usually couldn’t sustain it for long. It might be good for the normal world to know that Gifts were self-limiting -- that unlike comic books, they couldn’t be used with impunity. That whatever the Gifteds’ abilities, they were still human. Perhaps fewer would fear them, if they were still demonstrably human.

“So when am I going on TV with this?” Bridie asked.

“In two days. We need to get this out there as soon as possible.”

“This’ll all end in disaster,” Bridie said, shaking her head.

“It better not,” Julifer muttered darkly.

\----

The tractor, Lorna discovered, wans’t enough.

Yes, it was big, and yes, it was heavy, but it was nothing compared to her wall. There was no _challenge_ to it. She was uncertain what would actually be a challenge, either. She’d already proven to herself that she could manage cars, but there was nothing bigger in the village.

She took a break when half the field was done, and went to sit with Old Orla, who was minding the twins in Gran’s absence. Big Jamie had given them a box of Kinex, and they were already putting together rather complex… _things_...with their tiny hands, content to entertain themselves for hours that way. Both crawled into her lap almost immediately, as they always did, rather like a pair of cats.

Having them, stroking their soft hair, soothed her inner frustration. Already they had grown so much -- they’d be toddling about soon enough, and then the high walkways really _would_ need rails.

 _I wish I had a better world to give you_ , she thought. They were safe here, yes, but it was such a contained existence, with relatively few core people -- between Lasgaelen and Kirk, there were only seven hundred, and the rest would go on their way eventually.

And once they had, the expats could come home.

What she knew, that most of others did not, was that Thranduil’s caverns were much, much bigger than he let on. He’d told the few in Big Jamie’s that rainy night that they ran under about an eighth of Ireland -- he could fit far more than twenty thousand people, but just now he couldn’t _feed_ them, and shelter was useless if you couldn’t eat.

But if they were to fill the Halls to capacity, they needed to plough far more land. Unfortunately, they could no longer hunt to supplement their diet, and they would need massive numbers of livestock, with equally massive pastures. It would be a logistical nightmare, and one she sure as hell wasn’t qualified to organize. They had people like Gran for that -- Gran, who she hoped wasn’t about to start World War III by being, well, _her._

 _Mammy, lookit_. Saoirse held up a handful of rose petals, before happily stuffing them into her mouth.

Lorna groaned. Yeah, roses were edible, but _still_. “If it’s not food, don’t eat it,” she said. “That goes for you, too, Mister.” She tickled Shane under the chin, which made him burst into giggles. At least they laughed aloud, even if they wouldn’t speak.

They both looked at her with their green, green eyes. To her amusement, she could already tell they were going to have their father’s eyebrows, which she was sure Saoirse would just _love_ during her teenage years.

“You two,” she said, pulling the both close.

\----

Out of the corner of his eye, Fëanor watched Lorna and her children. Sharley was probably watching _him_ , but he hardly cared.

Had he ever done that with his children? Had he ever merely sat and played with them? The answer, sadly, was no. He’d spent little time with any of them until they were old enough to work in the forge. Had they played thus with Nerdanel? Had they giggled in her lap while she tickled them? How he must have disappointed her. It was a wonder she had stayed with him as long as she did.

Much though it pained him, he hoped she had been allowed to remarry. He hoped she had found someone who could give her the happiness he had not. She deserved so much better than he had ever given her.

He _had_ loved her, but he’d loved his forge more. More than his wife, more than his sons, and look at what had come of it. Naught but misery and death and ruin.

Glancing at Sharley, he wondered if she had seen that. She hadn’t seen Amras; she’d said he had too much in his history for her to read. He hoped she had not -- she had seen enough of his evils as it was, and he would rather any further stay private. And yet for all she seemed to take delight in insulting him, he had yet to sense any actual judgment from her. Which was just as well, because his judgment of himself was more than enough to be getting on with.

He wondered if he should curse Námo for this. It was a punishment, no matter what anyone might say about redemption, and he’d crafted it for himself, as exquisitely as any  
Silmaril.

Something poked him in the side -- Sharley, with a stick. “If you try to ignore it, you’ll just dwell,” she said. “Work through it. Now that you’ve accepted you need to be forgiven, you have to learn to forgive yourself.”

“What do you know of forgiveness?” he asked caustically. “What have you ever done, that you should need to forgive yourself?”

Her mismatched eyes held his, so bright in the death-pallor of her face. “I got my daughter killed,” she said. “I got _myself_ killed. I’m still figuring out how to forgive myself for that, but at least I’m trying.”

He looked away, unable to meet her gaze -- so ancient, in spite of her physical youth. By Elf standards she was barely more than an adult, and yet she had perhaps seen as much of history as he had. He did not like the mirror she held to his fëa -- it showed it too clearly. He resented this timeless child, dead and yet more immortal than he could ever be. And yet now he could not leave her, even were he allowed. She was a wraith, a spectre that would haunt him to the end of his days, this dead thing that lived. This abomination that forced him to confront the worst of himself, as he had never done in all his millennia in the Halls of Mandos.

She poked him again. “C’mon,” she said. “You’re tall, you need to get the higher apples.”

“ _You_ are tall, for a mortal,” he pointed out.

“Still can’t reach them, now can I? Enjoy the sun, Fëanor. In this land, it can be rare. You’re alive again -- learn how to enjoy it. Even I managed that, and I’m dead.”

That actually made him arch an eyebrow. “Point taken.”

\----

Lorna was quite tired that evening, but there was something she wanted to try. 

“I really can’t stand the thought’v being touched like… _that_ ,” she said, when she and Thranduil had gone to bed, “but I was wondering...what if I, y’know, touched myself, and you just...spoke? Because I do kind’v like your voice, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Thranduil smirked at her. “I hadn’t,” he said dryly.

“ _Hush_ , you,” she said, crawling up onto the bed. “Can we try?”

“If you think it wise, Firieth Dithen,” he said, more seriously. “I do not want to do anything that might cause you arm, but if you wish to try, I will help you.”

“Don’t laugh,” she warned.

He arched an eyebrow. “When have I ever laughed at you? About this, I mean,” he added, seeing her expression.

“Fair point,” she said, stripping off her vest-top. Now that it came down to it, she felt heinously awkward, and was second-guessing herself even as she pulled off the rest of her clothes and crawled beneath the blankets.

“We don’t have to do this right now, Firieth Dithen,” Thranduil said gravely, looking down at her. “If you are at all nervous, perhaps we should wait.”

Lorna shook her head. “I’ll stop when I need to,” she said. She’d be damned if she’d let Von Ratched wreck this for her. “Just...talk to me.” She shut her eyes, glad of his warmth beside her as her hands wandered.

“About what?” he asked, and she focused on his voice, on the rich, deep timbre of it. “Shall I tell you that you are strong, and lovely, and so very, very tiny?”

Lorna grinned, her hands drifting down her body as he said, “You are amazing, my Lorna, my tiny avenging Maia. Who drives like a lunatic, swears like a sailor, and can drink more than any mortal ought to be capable of.”

She burst out laughing. “That’s not helping. Let’s wait on that a bit, shall we? Now I can’t concentrate.”

“Whenever you wish, Firieth Dithen,” he said, and kissed her forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that took ten thousand years. Ugh. Hopefully the next will not be nearly so long a wait. Title means ‘Living’ in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my soul. Om nom nom.


	63. Achrann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which nobody in the Other is happy, Bridie lets the world in on the DMA in her own special way, and Fëanor both helps and yet does not help at all.

Azarael was not fond of the Swamp, nor of its ruler, but the Sharley-thing fell closest to Tanya’s jurisdiction by sheer default. It was not alive, but nor was it dead, and thus was Tanya’s.

‘Tanya’ was not her real name; like Jary, she had allowed her charges to change it into something they could all pronounce. Her real name had once been Diadarmareth, which even he had to admit was a bit of a mouthful, and he had serious doubts that she even remembered it. She was too fond of smoking and imbibing mind-destroying substances.

She and her family -- army -- of undead children had made their home in the Swamp, the only place left in the Other that still had water aboveground. It stood in still black pools, among trees festooned with moss and lichen, reflecting the light of the myriad lanterns Tanya had hung among them. Dry land was at a premium outside of the center; there was only one viable path, so she had built a crazed network of wooden walkways, all of which looked as though a strong breeze would collapse them. It was just as well that within the Swamp, there was no wind; the storms that could cover half the land rarely touched the ground, but Tanya kept them from the Swamp entirely.

The Sharley-thing was not happy, but so long as he had hold of it while it was outside the circle, it couldn’t cross. His hand was clamped around its bony wrist, despite the revulsion it caused him. He shouldn’t be able to _be_ revolted, so it was all the more disturbing.

Tanya’s children followed them down the path, pacing them on the walkways, silent and deeply distressed. On the few other occasions he’d been forced to come here, they’d always pestered him with questions, chattering like jays, but now there was not a word.

“You think she’ll have any ideas?” Jary asked.

“Not remotely,” he replied. “And that is presupposing she is sober.” Their kind were not naturally susceptible to mind-altering substances, but they could render themselves so, should they wish.

“Maybe _Tanya_ will want me around,” the Sharley-thing said resentfully. He had to continually disregard that this abomination wore his daughter’s face, for that was a look she had given him often, once upon a time. She had only ceased giving it under twenty years ago.

“Yeah, no,” Jary said flatly. This had to be even worse for her than it was for him, for she had largely raised Sharley. And yet he could not comfort her, because he didn’t know how. It had made him a terrible husband, and an even worse father.

He should have let Sharley pass on, but he was selfish, and greedy, and knew that if she died, he would have no chance to reconcile with her. So he had made of her an abomination -- though nothing anywhere near as abominable as this _thing_. This thing, that would exist whether or not he had let Sharley die. In that, he could have done nothing different, but it was no comfort.

More zombie-children gathered, following, and by the time they reached the center of the Swamp, he would wager every one of them was there. Tanya was as well, looking uncharacteristically sober. She was rather smaller than Jary, and pale -- had she been human, she might well have passed for seventeen. Her hair was choppy, dyed in varying shades of red and orange and yellow, and she seemed to prefer wearing various patchwork layers that made her look like a walking rag pile.

“Damn, Az, you fucked up, didn’t you?” she asked, eying the Sharley-thing. “What d’you want _me_ to do about it? Damn thing’s a Memory. Not my division.”

Well, _that_ was spectacularly unhelpful. Not that he had expected anything less. “We need to make it mortal, so that we might kill it,” he said, ignoring the thing’s glare.

“Well, shit, if you don’t know, I don’t, either,” Tanya said, but she eyed the thing closely. “I hate to say this, but we may only be able to contain it. If we can even do that. How in fuck did it even get outta Old Echo?”

“It ate the others,” he said, and couldn’t stop his expression twisting with distaste.

“ _Seriously?_ ” she asked, staring at him. “ _Gross_. You really ate all the other Memories, you sick little fuck?”

“They are at peace now,” it said flatly. “Which is more than any of you ever managed. You ensured we were trapped, and left us to starve.”

Azarael had to remind himself that the thing was trying to goad him -- not that that was terribly hard, for no matter how much it looked like his daughter when she had lived, its eyes were the same flat, hateful, blank windows as all the the other Memories’ had been. Its touch was a horror, even to him, unnatural and cold; for all it looked like it lived, it didn’t breathe, and no blood flowed in its--

Beneath his fingers, something fluttered in the thing’s wrist. It was faint, and not repeated, but it was unmistakably a pulse. Before he even knew what he was doing, he had released the thing, a shudder working its way up his spine -- and then, in a blink, it was gone.

Tanya pinched the bridge of her nose. “Well… _shit. Now_ what?” She knew as well as he did that he could not cross with the same ease Sharley did; he couldn’t just step any random place he felt like. It would take him time to make it to Earth, and then he would have to hunt the damnable thing… And Jary and Tanya, being of the Other and nowhere else, could not follow him. Not yet; he simply didn’t have enough power stored.

“Now I go find that thing, before it can do any more damage than it has to.” What was it that one of Sharley’s voices always said? Ah, yes: _this is gonna suck_.

\----

Bridie had wondered how on Earth the DMA intended to get their message out all over the world, but the answer was far simpler than she would have expected: the technopaths had a few satellites.

“Exactly how many people have you spied on this way?” she asked Miranda.

“Fewer than you’d think,” the woman said blandly. “That’s why we have _actual_ spies.” She was putting the finishing touches on the set, as she called it -- it was just a big oak desk with a pale blue background, but there were jars of pens and weird fiddly things that would only get in the way of anyone who actually tried to use it for its intended purpose.

Bridie hadn’t thought to dress in any special way, but Mairead had foisted a black cashmere sweater on her. It didn’t scream ‘teenager’, at least, but neither did it advertise ‘woman in her 90’s’.

She supposed she ought to be nervous, given how much rested on this, but she really wasn’t. Her da had always told her as a girl to be as direct and clear as possible, so that no one could doubt your meaning; what people did with your words after the fact was their own affair. Miranda had taught her the history of the DMA, even if it was the condensed version, so at least she wouldn’t sound like a complete eejit. She stared at the camera, calm as you please.

“You ready?” Julifer asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” she said grimly.

The red light on the camera came on, which she assumed meant it was recording, or broadcasting, or...whatever.

“My name is Bridie Monaghan,” she said. “I’m talking to you now on behalf’v the Department’v Magical Affairs -- I know it sounds like shite, but hear me out.”

Julifer pinched the bridge of her nose.

“If you’ve noticed your medical supplies lasting longer than they ought to, or people healing faster than you’d expect, that’s us,” Bridie said, ignoring her. “Anything you plant that’s growing faster than expected -- that’s us, too. We can’t help on a large enough scale unless we don’t have to hide it, so here’s us, not hiding. If anyone’s wondering, there’s not many’v us compared to you, and yes, we’ve been here all along, just keeping to ourselves. I’ve lived my whole life in a tiny village in Ireland. We’ll send out more people to talk in person, but meanwhile, if you see one’v us doing what we do, let us. Everyone’ll get back on their feet a bloody lot faster if we help. Let us do what we need to do, and we’ll have an actual press conference in a fortnight. The where’v it has to wait until we find some undamaged space big enough to hold a load’v reporters and the like.

“Now, I’m not actually in charge’v this place -- the one who is’ll be there too. Best to think’v me as an ambassador, because I don’t know what other bloody word to use. For now it’s Bridie Monaghan, signing off.”

The red light blinked off, and Julifer rubbed her temples. “Well, that could have been worse,” she said, and dissolved into laughter. “If nothing else, it got their attention.”

\----

The entirety of both Lasgaelen and Kirk had gathered in a cafeteria in the DMA to watch Gran’s speech, and Lorna laughed so hard she nearly cried. It was very...Gran, but at least it meant the DMA didn’t look like some scary military organization. Nothing introduced by a tiny, blunt Irish pensioner could. An Irish pensioner in Shannon’s sweater, unless Lorna was much mistaken.

“No matter what, we made an impression,” she managed at last. Both twins were looking at her as though she’d lost her mind, which only set her off all over again.

“I am uncertain that is a good thing,” Thranduil said dryly, though he couldn’t fully hide his smile.

“Better they be confused than afraid,” Mairead snorted, “and that was going to confuse the shite out’v anyone not in the know.”

“Yes, it very much will,” Thranduil said, more dryly still.

Sharley, however, was frowning slightly, playing with the end of her braid. “I oughtta go out there and help,” she said, “but I can’t exactly take Fëanor with me.”

“No,” Thranduil said at once, glaring at her. “You are not leaving him alone with me.”

“Wasn’t gonna leave him _alone_ ,” she said, her odd eyes traveling to Team Elrond. “He hasn’t had much time to talk to them, and he doesn’t need me breathing down the back of his neck all the time. If he turns into an asshole without a babysitter, Lorna can alway sknock him out. I’ll come back tonight and see how things went.”

Thranduil very obviously didn’t like that at all, but what could they do? Sharley was something of a law unto herself. If she wanted to do something, they could hardly stop her -- which was rather scary, honestly. She was the next best thing to a god; if she ever decided to stop being benevolent, they were pretty well fucked. And the worst of this particular situation was that they couldn’t just knock Fëanor out and put him in the dungeon -- even if he didn’t rat them out, she’d see it in their history. Well, fuck.

“We can give it a try,” Lorna said, and didn’t bother hiding her dubiousness.

“If it fucks up, it’s on me,” Sharley said. “But I’m the only one who can do what I do, and I should be out there, doing it.”

There wasn’t any real way to argue with that, so Lorna didn’t even try, despite the fact that she seriously questioned her ability to deal with Fëanor. He was an Elf; yeah, she was a powerful telepath, but she was also human. She could restrain him, but she probably couldn’t actually knock him out. Dammit.

She eyed the room, so very crowded. The Lasgaeleners wanted to go home, she knew, but they were nevertheless currently settled where they were, for now. The people of Kirk had integrated among them surprisingly well, all things considered -- but then, they were a pragmatic lot, used to scraping out an existence and not prone to complaining.

When had this become normal? She knew she was not the only one who wondered. This had only been their lives for a little over a month, and look at them. Granted, it helped a great deal that the knew it wasn’t permanent. Those of Lasgaelen would be able to go home eventually, but she had a suspicion Kirk had been wiped off the map, along with God knew how many other coastal towns. So long as there was no confirmation of that, there was hope for them. If it did get confirmed, however...they might not be doing so well then. And Lorna as yet had no idea what the Lasgaeleners could do about it.

But that wasn’t her job to worry about -- or at least, not hers alone. It would work. Somehow.

\----

Fëanor was not best pleased about being fobbed off on other guardians, and not only because of the sheer indignity. No, it was partly because for the first time in either life, he hesitated.

Elrond was his grandson, by adoption if not by blood, yet he had done so terribly by his own sons that he had yet to press the issue of speaking with Elrond and his family -- and, rather notably, they never had, either. His name had been reviled throughout the ages of Ennor; none would wish to be called kin to him. For all his brilliant successes, he had failed his family completely.

When they started their afternoon in the fields, beneath the hot sunshine that seemed to be so abnormal here, he watched Lorna when she took her rest -- her children were attempting to walk now, driving the one who was her sister-daughter half mad. Lorna, however, would pick them up and toss them into the air, surprisingly strong for one so small, while they shrieked with laughter. He wished to talk to her, but his English as yet relied heavily on Sharley’s pantomime, and no one else could manage it quite so well as she did.

He thought of Nerdanel, as he planted corn, the earth warm and dry around his fingers. No doubt she had done thus, when he was busy in the forge. She had raised their children, and he had led them to their deaths. How could he ever think she would forgive him for that? He’d cast aside his family in favor of, as Sharley put it, three light bulbs. Surpassingly beautiful, yes, but in the end then they were merely...things. Cold gems, not living flesh and blood.

Yes, he wanted to talk to Lorna, and when they quit for the evening, he tried to work out how to best approach her without setting off her husband -- not that he thought she would be best pleased if Thranduil _did_ cause a scene. She seemed like an independent little creature, and very stubborn. Nerdanel had been thus as well, though somewhat more refined than Lorna. His wife had never been counted among the most beautiful or most gracious of the Eldar, but her intellect was above many, and her stubbornness legendary. 

He pondered, as they walked in a long line through the forest, the light of the setting sun slanting in golden-red rays through the trees. Thranduil and Lorna were at the head of it, while he was a good quarter way back. The Edain chattered around him, unheeded, while a faint breeze stirred his hair.

Fëanor couldn’t precisely say he _liked_ Ennor, but it was, oddly preferable to Aman or the Halls of Mandos. Both of those places were too perfect -- there was no challenge, no change. In Aman it was ever spring and summer, the weather always pleasant; there were no nights where rain lashed at the windows, and one could be happy to be in the heat of a forge.

It was, in a word, boring. And having watched Elrond’s sons, he had a suspicion he was not the only one who thought so. Elladan and Elrohir seemed to be having far too much fun in this world, and he wondered if they would even be willing to go back when their task was completed. Singing songs beneath the trees would not, he thought, be enough for them.

To his very great surprise, their mother made it up the line to him. “Is it difficult, with Sharley away?” she asked in Sindarin.

“It is...peculiar,” Fëanor said. He did not actually miss the woman-creature, but at least she had been a constant since he had come to this world. “Without her aid, there are few I can speak to.” Not that this was necessarily a bad thing, per se; there were few he _wanted_ to speak to, but not wanting to and not being able to were two rather different things. Why was Celebrían speaking to _him_? 

“And yet you watch Lorna. Why?”

Ah. There it was. “I see her with her children,” he said, figuring there was no point in lying. “I was absent, when my own were that young.”

“And in watching her, you see what you are missing,” Celebrían said. Her piercing blue eyes held his, and refused to release them.

“Yes,” he said, a touch irritably. Just because he had feelings didn’t mean he wanted to admit to them.

“You should speak to her,” Celebrían urged.

Fëanor snorted. “Somehow, I doubt her husband would like that.”

“Most likely not,” Celebrían said, amusement dancing in her eyes. “But if there is one thing I have seen about their marriage, it is that neither truly has any say over what the other does.”

“My English is poor,” he said, “her Sindarin, from what I have seen, is worse, and I know he would be unwilling to act as intermediary.”

Those blue eyes still held his. “But I am not. Should you truly wish to speak with her, I will aid you.”

“You speak their tongue?”

“Passably. I have studied more than my sons or my husband.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “If this is not something you truly wish to do, just say so. Otherwise, I will leave you with no excuses.”

Fëanor looked at her, galled. He need not listen to this elleth, who was not even fully Noldor, but she was offering him a chance at what he’d been wanting all afternoon. And after all, what _else_ did he have to do? “Very well. But tell me, my lady, why would you approach me thus, knowing who and what I am? I know how loathed I am among the Eldar.”

“Námo would not have released you if he did not see something in you worth redeeming,” she said. “Yes, you have done the most vile, wicked deeds any of the Eldar could conceive of, and we have all spent the Ages cursing your name, but I find I cannot dismiss the judgment of the Valar. If Námo thinks you can in any way be redeemed, I should not sit idly by.”

“What of your husband and your sons?”

“Elrond does not know what to do,” Celebrían sighed. “He did love Maglor as a father, in spite of all Maglor had done. We venerate his true father, but the fact remains that Eärendil abandoned his family and never returned. But worse still was his mother,” she added, her face hardening in contempt. “When Maglor and Maedhros invaded Sirion, she threw herself off a cliff with the Silmaril, abandoning her sons to the mercy of two who, so far as she knew, had none. She left her children to be slaughtered, and all over a _stone_. I do not care how beautiful they were -- no mother worthy of the title would do that.”

Fëanor had to agree with her. Nerdanel would not have done thus -- not for anything. “Does your husband know you think this of his parents?” 

“He does,” she said. “It is not a view he shares, but he understands why I hold it. Somehow, he had found it in himself to...not perhaps forgive them, but to accept that what is, is. At the very least, he holds no bitterness.”

Fëanor knew full well he would not have been able to say the same -- his reaction to his father’s marriage to Indis was proof of that. He had been so certain his mother was being betrayed, that his father’s wishes were unnatural...until he died, and discovered that while his father was the first to take a second spouse, he was not the last. It was never anywhere close to common, and it was generally frowned upon, but it did happen. Thranduil being a perfect example.

Why Lorna? She had not yet possessed her gifts when they met, or so Sharley said, yet Thranduil had met, bed, and wed her within the first fifteen minutes of their acquaintance. She was a strange little creature, and Thranduil seemed a touch unhinged, but still.

Fëanor watched her, and wondered. Yes, he would speak with her, should she be willing. He said as much to Celebrían, who smiled.

“Leave it to me,” she said.

\----

Dinner that night was as creative as the cooks could make it. Now that they actually had some vegetables, that was an easier proposition than it had been -- they had beans and peas and squash, as well as a load of pumpkins only Gran knew what to do with. Once she’d been done at the DMA, she’d started an assembly line in the kitchen, and concocted about thirty pumpkin pies. Everybody only got a taste, but it was a nice treat.

“How the hell did you make pumpkin pie without sugar or milk?” Lorna asked, trying not to inhale her food.

“Tinned milk,” Gran said, spearing a bean with her fork. They were all trying not to jostle elbows, but every time Mairead bumped hers, she elbowed right back. “Miranda gave us some. Eggs, too. Said she’d give us a cow and some chickens, too.”

Lorna eyed her. “Sounds to me a whole lot like a bribe,” she said.

“I know it does,” Gran said grimly. “I also know it’s one we can’t afford to pass up. Kids need dairy, and you can’t beat fresh milk. And eggs’v got protein, which we’re lacking a bit right now. I can make do without sugar, but not without eggs.” She shook her head. “It’s hard in here, but sure God I don’t want to think about what it’s like out there, even with our help. At least we’ve got food, and a solid roof over our heads.”

“No shit,” Lorna said. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she twitched. When she turned, she found, to her immense surprise, Elrond’s wife -- Celebrían, that was her name. Lorna had rarely spoke to her or Elrond, for all she’d worked much with the twins. “Someone would like to speak with you,” she said.

Lorna blinked, utterly nonplussed. “Who?” she asked.

“Fëanor,” the Elf said. “I know that your husband will protest, so if you would, we should go before he can find out.

The tone in Celebrían’s voice made Lorna burst out laughing. “I don’t know where Thranduil even is.”

“In the healing wards, with my husband. He may yet be some time.”

Well, this was unexpected. Why would Fëanor want to talk to her? They hadn’t passed more than a dozen direct words, if that. Curiosity led Lorna to take her plate and follow -- out of the dining hall and all the way to the waterfall she’d only seen once.

Fëanor stood waiting beside the pool, visibly tense, and she wondered if he was having second thoughts. Since she couldn’t even guess at his _first_ thoughts, she had no idea.

“Why’s he want to talk to me?” she asked.

“Because of your children,” Celebrían said. “He squandered his time with his own, but he has seen you with yours. He wants to know precisely what he missed.”

That sounded more than a bit masochistic, but whatever. “Okay,” she said, hopping up onto the bench. This was certainly one of the weirder things she’d done in a while.

Celebrían sat beside her, and they both waited for Fëanor to speak. Indeed, they waited so long that Lorna began to wonder if he was actually going to; she finished up her dinner and watched him pace around the little pool.

 _You’re reminding me of a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs_ , she sent him, knowing he probably wasn’t going to understand half of that. _You want to know about my children?_

He stopped, and looked at her. “What is it like with hini?”

“Children,” Celebrían clarified.

Lorna blinked. Had he really _totally_ missed out on the childhoods of all his own? Christ that was sad. “Wonderful,” she said. “Every day, I watch them learn something new. Their curiosity -- it’s pure. There’s nothing selfish in it, no sense’v...they don’t learn something and immediately say ‘what can I do with this’. It’s completely innocent discovery.”

Celebrían apparently translated this, but Lorna had no idea what he made of it; the guy was practically impossible to read, unless he was annoyed. _Then_ his emotions telegraphed loud and clear. (Had telegraphs actually made noise? Why was she wondering this?)

“How long does it last?”

Lorna shrugged. “Dunno. These’re my first kids. Probably a few years.”

Fëanor eyed her, his eyes piercing. “Why did you marry Thranduil?”

She blinked, through by the change of subject. “Because I fell in love with him,” she said, and just barely managed to avoid adding, _duh_.

Celebrían translated that, but her expression darkened when he said something in what didn’t actually sound like Sindarin, but obviously wasn’t English. She shook her head sharply, mouth pressed into a firm line.

“I’m probably going to regret asking this, but what did he say?” Lorna asked. Honestly, she was starting to want wine.

“It is not a question about your children,” Celebrían said, “and I will not repeat it.”

“Why did you stay?” Fëanor asked carefully. “After what Thranduil did to you, why did you stay?”

“What, you mean after he knocked me up? Got me pregnant? This village is my home now, and I’d wanted a kid. I was pregnant once before, and lost it.” What the hell any of this had to do with her children, she couldn’t bloody guess.

It took some doing to translate all that, and Celebrían looked even less happy.

“How could you?” Fëanor asked, pacing again. “What he did in your mind--”

“--he didn’t do on purpose,” Lorna finished. “He was a really horny telepath. It kind’v just...happened. I didn’t think I’d see him again after that.”

Once all of that was relayed, he stilled, and stared at her. “And you believe that?”

“Believe what? That it was an accident? Well, _yeah_.” She was growing quite tempted to shove him into that pool. Maybe if those damned trousers got wet, they’d tighten up and turn him into a soprano.

He looked as though he wanted to speak, but said nothing, though a kind of condescending pity entered his eyes, and it immediately sent her hackles up. “Lorna,” he said at last, “Eldar do not...do that. Do not…” he said something in Sindarin.

“Project,” Celebrían clarified. For such a genteel lady, she looked as though she wanted to brain him with a rock.

“Maybe not normal Elves, but Thranduil _was_ kind’v crazy,” Lorna said. “He’d been alone so long it made him really weird.” _Really_ weird; he’d adapted remarkably, even if he’d also kind of destroyed half the world, too.

“You do not see how he looks at you,” Fëanor said, his frustration palpable. “You are...he owns you.”

“Actually, it’d be more fair to say I own him,” she said, growing ever more annoyed, “except that we’re people, and people don’t own each other. Anyway, I thought we were talking about my children.”

“Children you did not ask for. That he...changed your mind...and gave you. I failed Nerdanel, but I...got her fairly,” he said. “I did not...twist her mind and make her want me. You would not have wanted him, would you?”

Lorna glowered. “Yeah, fuck this.” She and Thranduil had already had this conversation. If Fëanor wasn’t willing to believe he had been lonely, horny, and a bit mental, that was his problem. “We’re done.”

“Watch how he looks at you,” Fëanor said, as she stalked off. “You will see.”

\----

Never, in all the millennia of her life, had Celebrían wanted to strike someone so very badly. If this was what came of her aid, she would never give it again. “Must you seek to sow discord?” she demanded in Sindarin.

“I seek no such thing,” Fëanor said, with a vehemence that surprised her. “You have seen it, I know you have.”

“I have seen that he loves her,” she said, though in truth, she did know something of which he meant. Yes, it was a touch unsettling, but Thranduil had always been a touch...odd. Perhaps his courting methods were not conventional, but anyone with working eyes could see that his love for Lorna was true. Perhaps he was, in his own mind, a touch possessive, but it was not reflected in his actions. He did not view her as lesser, did not try to control her, so what tangible bearing did it have on this possessiveness? None. The Edain, she found, had a saying: actions speak louder than words. Thranduil’s behavior was nothing but that of a loving husband.

Lorna had waited before she wed him in the custom of her people, and he had, from all Celebrían had gathered, respected that.

What she questioned was what he would have done, had Lorna said no. It was not a question she wanted answered.

She hoped, very much, that this would not sow doubt in Lorna’s mind -- and that she would say nothing of this to Thranduil. Should she, he might well send Fëanor back to Námo.

\----

Lorna was on her way to being well and truly furious, and knew she needed a walk before she went around actual people again.

She and Thranduil had already discussed this. He’d been entirely honest with her -- about what he’d done, and what he might have done. Yeah, it was creepy, but that hadn’t been how it had gone, and he’d grown and changed so much in the year they’d known one another that she trusted him completely.

The question was, how many others didn’t? How many others silently shared Fëanor’s opinion?

Lorna wasn’t stupid, nor was she entirely unaware of the way Thranduil looked at her sometimes. He could be as possessive as he liked, so long as it stayed within the privacy of his own head -- and she wasn’t really one to talk, considering she felt a measure of it herself.

But now...now she was paranoid, and it wasn’t on account of Thranduil. He’d been so honest with her about the darker aspects of his nature that she couldn’t doubt him, but how she doubted the others. She wondered how many of them though she’d been snared in some kind of net -- that Thranduil had actually influenced her mind by conscious force of will, rather than just being lonely and really horny. Yeah, okay, on paper it did kind of sound like Elven date rape, but anyone who’d been around them for more than five minutes ought to know better.

But how many didn’t?

There was one very easy way to find out, though she hesitated to do it. Use of her telepathy without the consent of others was a pretty nasty violation, but it was the only way she’d get an honest answer. And now she desperately wanted one. Because if her family and her friends thought she was...was _bewitched_ somehow, she had to find some way to correct it.

She really didn’t want to tell Thranduil about this, either. He already hated having Fëanor here, and this really wouldn’t help. At the same time, though, part of her felt like she ought to, though she had no idea why. Surely all it would do was piss him off, and yet -- well, she didn’t want to deal with this alone. It was a nasty revelation she just couldn't keep to herself -- and it involved Thranduil, too.

She stalked back to their bedroom, lighting some lamps and poking up the fire. A drink sounded great, so she poured herself some wine, pacing as she drank it. It upset her, far too much, that people might think so badly of both of them. Thranduil was not a monster, and she was not an idiot.

Nobody in Lasgaelen thought that -- of that she was sure. But the people of Kirk -- anyone in the DMA who might know things -- _they_ might be another story. She wanted to think that nobody in the DMA would know, but she had a feeling there wasn’t much Miranda didn’t find out. Honestly, the whole thing was just insulting, and Lorna wished she could just dismiss it as Fëanor being an asshole, but he hadn’t seemed like he was trying to be an asshole. He’d sounded like he actually felt sorry for her, and that just made her angrier.

And that was how Thranduil found her --pacing, muttering to herself, and quite ossified.

“Your grandmother said you had gone with Celebrían, Firieth Dithen,” he said, “and that Celebrían returned alone. What happened?”

“Shite,” she said, and paused in her tracks. “Shite happened. Where are the twins?”

“With your sister. Celebrían suggested I speak with you alone.”

“Probably wise,” Lorna said, fighting an urge to grind her teeth. “Fëanor’s an idiot.”

Predictably, Thranduil’s expression darkened. “What has he done?” he demanded. 

“He was an idiot,” she repeated. “He wanted to ask me about the twins, since he knew he’d cocked up with his own kids, and wanted to know what he’d missed out on. Fair enough, but then he went on about how he thinks you’re some kind’v...I don’t know, telepathic date rapist. That you whammied me on purpose. Tried telling him otherwise, but he didn’t listen, and now I’m wondering how many other people think that -- people who know _about_ us, but don’t _know_ us. And before you get all pissed and storm off, that is so not what I need right now.”

Thranduil looked poised to do just that, his pale eyes absolutely molten with fury. God dammit.

Lorna rolled hers, and stalked across the room to grab his hand. “ _No_ , Thranduil. Not right now. Sharley’ll deal with him. I need you here. Don’t make me regret telling you that, or I’m going to get even more pissed off.”

He still looked infuriated, so she all but dragged him across the room, stopping only when they reached the sofa. Hopping up onto it, she grabbed his collar, pulled him to her, and kissed him. _That_ shut him up nicely, and for the first time since before Von Ratched, the heat that flared in her didn’t make her panic.

For a moment he froze, and she sank her hands into his hair. “Thranduil, if you don’t kiss me back, I’m going to get very, very annoyed.”

His hands came up around her waist, almost tentatively. “Lorna, are you sure?”

In answer, she kissed him again, her hands fumbling with the buttons of his dress. (And yes, it was still a dress, dammit.) It seemed to be all he needed, because he returned the kiss with a fervor that made her want to melt and mark him at the same time. No matter what any other morons thought, _they_ knew what they had. They knew each other’s secrets, each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and right now they were reacquainting themselves with what each other tasted like. While they both had a great deal to do tomorrow, Lorna was more than willing to do it on very little sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Fëanor, you really didn’t help, except you sort of did. Congratulations? Sharley’s going to be so irritated, though now that Memory!Sharley is on Earth, she won’t have the chance to be for long.
> 
> Title means “Strife” in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my hungry, hungry brain. There ought to be a chapter up in the Interludes sooner or later, though I really need to freaking finish their wedding night first.


	64. Ullmhóidí agus Fadhbanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Sharley is Displeased with a capital D with Fëanor, the residents of the Halls get ready for a minor vacation, and Námo has had more than enough of this shit.
> 
> I also _finally_ got Lorna and Thranduil's wedding night done: [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4287930/chapters/25493907)

Lorna woke the next morning sore, but definitely no longer annoyed. Well, not at Fëanor, anyway; the fact that she had to get up was fairly irritating.

“One’v these days,” she said, stretching, “we really need to declare a holiday, just because I want to be able to spend a whole day here.” She was fairly sure that if they had sex all day, it might just kill her, but when was the last time they’d been able to just relax and spend time together? She knew it was pretty damn selfish to want that, considering it was a luxury probably nobody else on the planet had right now, but she wanted it nonetheless.

“We should,” Thranduil said, trying to card his fingers through her tangled hair. “It may do good for -- what is the word? Morale? If we give the kitchens enough time to prepare a full day’s meals in advance, I see no reason not to. We will not starve if we take a single day away from planting and tending. I forget, sometimes, that Edain do not have the stamina of the Eldar -- that your needs are not the same.”

“Well, I’ve got a particular need right now,” she said, grinning. “I hope like hell somebody lit the boiler. I need a bath, and I don’t want to take one alone.” Annoyed as she still was at Fëanor, at least their aggravating conversation seemed to have thoroughly got her over her issues with intimacy.

“As my lady commands.”

“Shut it, you.”

Fortunately, somebody had in fact lit the boiler, and she managed to get the ratio of hot to cold right as the tub filled. Thranduil sat her on a chair before the vanity and combed out her hair, lightly massaging her scalp as he did. A look at her reflection revealed he’d left her with some fairly spectacular hickeys, too, and she’d just bet he’d done it on purpose. That Elf was damn lucky she loved him.

She caught his eyes in the mirror, and his smirk. “You, Mister,” she said, “are a troll, and you’re lucky I’ve got no shame.” He really was lucky, too, because it was far too warm for a scarf, and the idea of going down and getting some kind of...ointment, or whatever...from Elrond would be its own kind of awkward.

“What can I say,” he said, teasing the last of the snarls from her hair. “And in all fairness, I am not the only one who left...evidence.”

Lorna burst out laughing, because indeed he was not -- and with skin as fair as his, there was really no hiding the rather large purple blotch beneath the left corner of his jaw. “Eh, at least the world knows you’re getting some,” she said. “Which is more than can be said for Fëanor.”

Thranduil’s laughter joined hers, and she paused to appreciate how _young_ he looked when he laughed. Oh, physically he looked like he was somewhere in his thirties, but there was an air of age about him -- even if one didn't actually know how old he was, there was a sense of timelessness that set him apart. When he laughed, though, he could have almost been human.

She rose, and stepped up onto her chair so she could kiss him. _Why_ did he have to be so tall? His hair was like silk as she sank her hands into it, and hey, at least there weren’t any clothes to get in the way. 

He lifted her right off the chair and drew her down into the tub, sitting on one of the bench-seats -- that were of course all too tall for her, dammit -- and pulling her onto his lap. “We have a little time,” he said. “I’m sure we can make use of it.”

“I wonder how,” she said, grinning. “Kiss me, before I get annoyed.”

Kiss her he did, and oh, she had _missed_ this. To be able to taste him without the rise of panic, to relish the feel of his skin beneath her hands without her chest constricting in fear...she couldn’t wholly regret last night’s argument, since it had somehow given her this back. Let Fëanor think what he liked -- what she and Thranduil had was a bit weird, yes, but they were not exactly normal people, and they loved each other. Perhaps, in his mind, he _was_ a touch possessive -- he was aware of it, and he never let it spill over into his actions. He never tried to restrict her, to control her, because while he might be a touch cracked, he was not stupid. He cared more for her happiness than for whatever oddness might lurk within his head.

Eventually he let her up for air, his mouth traveling along her jaw and down to her neck, avoiding all the sore places he had left her last night (and doubtless providing her with fresh hickies, which was doubtless part of his intent). His hands were everywhere -- her sides, her back, between her legs, tormenting her as was his habit. She wasn’t strong enough to hurry him on, unfortunately.

“We _do_ have to go down to breakfast sooner or later,” she groaned. “C’mon, I’ll be sore as hell later -- we’re in hot water, we don’t have much time left, and if you don’t get on with it, I’ll bite you. And not in the fun way.”

His laugh rumbled through her, but she was more than ready. She really _was_ sore, so he took her very carefully, as though she were made of glass, teasing her until her nails sank into his shoulders. She was so quiet he’d complained more than once that it was difficult for him to know how he was doing, which was rank nonsense; her telepathy projected as much as his own, which today meant it wasn’t long before he followed her over the edge.

“Now that we’ve made sure I can’t walk straight,” Lorna sighed, “we’d best get actually _bathing_ over with. I’m not looking forward to asking Elrond for some kind’v...something.” She knew he wouldn’t make any sort of face, but she also knew he’d want to deep down.

“Believe me,” Thranduil said dryly, reaching for the shampoo, “he’s had stranger requests. _Much_ stranger.”

“I’m sure there’s a story behind that, and I need to hear it later.”

\----

When Sharley found out what Fëanor had been up to in her absence, she was not pleased. At all.

“ _What_ made you think that was in any way a good idea?” she demanded, pacing. He had an apartment, though he rarely used it, and she’d all but shoved him into it before locking the door behind them.

“I worry,” he said, looking sullen as a teenager. “What happened to this world is Thranduil’s fault.”

“Yeah,” she said, “because he’s an idiot, not crazy. He’d weird, and not totally stable, but neither am I. Neither are _you_. Fëanor, if I’d thought he was that much of a danger, I woulda taken him to the Other and left him there. Now you pissed off him _and_ Lorna -- who, I might add, could kill you with her brain -- so you’re coming with me today. I leave you here and she might actually do it.”

 _“And it would be fun to watch,”_ Kurt put in. _“We’ve never seen anybody’s head actually explode.”_

 _“Kurt, just...shut up,”_ Sinsemilla said wearily.

Only now did he look suitably disturbed. He was probably too used to assessing people only by the physical threat they displayed, and in that, Lorna didn't stand a chance against him. He did not, however, have any defense against her telekinesis. Hell, even _Sharley_ didn't, though the Stranger did.

“Oh, _now_ you think of that? You’re lucky Lorna doesn’t hold a grudge, because she could squish your head like a grape and not even touch you.”

He must have understood enough of that, for he looked even more disturbed. She tossed him a stocking hat to cover his ears.

“Well, at least you’ll get to see more of Earth. Lucky you.”

Jimmy sighed. _“Do we really have to take him with us?”_ he whined. _“All he does is mope and glare.”_

Fëanor scowled, but wisely said nothing, and Sharley wondered if getting saddled with him was as much a punishment for her crossing into Aman as it was for him theoretically redeeming himself. He didn't seem terribly interested in even trying, content to tell himself it was impossible, and that he didn't deserve redemption, and it was beginning to really piss her off.

“You know, if you ever want to be free of me, you really need to put in some fucking effort,” she said. “Confronting Lorna’s the first thing you’ve done here that nobody told you to do. I don’t want you shadowing me for the rest of time, and I know you don’t want to be shadowing _me_ , but so far all you’ve done is sit on your ass unless someone pokes you with a stick, and realize that you’ve fucked up without even trying to fix it. Take a little goddamn initiative already.”

Anger flashed his grey eyes, hot as the sun, but at least it was _something_ \-- something other than surliness and self-pity. “And what do you think I have been doing?” he demanded, rising.

“What you’re told,” she said flatly, “and nothing more. C’mon, Fëanor, I’ve seen your history. You did a lotta shit, but you did wonderful things, too. You’re strong, you’re fast, you’re brilliant, and you’re acting like a damn teenager.” It was driving her insane, too. It wasn’t like Earth and humanity were new to him anymore; he didn't have the excuse of being a fish out of water any longer. Yes, there was one hell of a lot he hadn’t yet seen, but he had the basics down. His English was far from perfect, but it existed. He hadn’t acted out, she’d give him that, but that was the problem: he hadn’t _acted_ at all. Unless she poked him with a metaphorical stick, he did nothing, said nothing. He just...existed.

“Look at what all my _brilliance_ led to,” he said, spitting the word like a curse. “Everything I ever wrought brought about nothing but ruin.”

“Your alphabet didn't,” she pointed out.

Now his face twisted with absolute rage, and she held up a hand, forestalling him. “Kicked you in the mommy issues, didn't I? Look, I know what it’s like to lose a mother. Mine died when I was eight. Creating a new alphabet just so you can pronounce her name the way you want...kinda overboard, but you _did it_. You’re capable of doing things, Fëanor, so _fucking DO SOMETHING!_ ”

Something in him must have snapped, because he struck out at her, for all the good it did him; the only thing that really came of it was him recoiling from the chill of her skin. She knew nothing about fighting, but she didn't need to; he couldn’t hurt her, and all touching her served to do was squick him, and at least he was actually doing something. There was fire in his eyes, for once, and she was more than willing to let him hit her if it got him off his ass.

He abruptly seemed to realize what he was doing, for he faltered, and gave her a look of blatant horror. Sharley rolled her eyes as he all but fled. Wonderful.

“Now _he freaks out?”_ Layla grumbled. _“Please don’t tell me he’s freaked out because he hit a girl. I really don’t want to think he’s that sexist.”_

 _“I think he is,”_ Sinsemilla sighed. _“Not sure_ why, _given there were female warrior Elves.”_

“He could just be skeeved he actually touched me,” Sharley pointed out. “Because we so have time for this.”

 _“The world will still be there,”_ Sinsemilla said. _“You can afford some time to hunt him down and poke him with a stick.”_

 _“But you need a stick first,”_ Jimmy added. _“A really pointy one.”_

Sharley sighed. She really, really hated it when the voices were right.

\----

Breakfast was porridge and fresh apples, and Mairead wondered how many other people were actually getting enough to eat. While there wasn't a great deal of variety in their diet, the food groups were being met, at least, and there was enough to fill their stomachs.

Thranduil was surprisingly late, strolling through the dining hall in his work clothes (he insisted they were the plainest he owned, yet the tunic was made out of some very fine, soft fabric, and the trousers were leather. _Leather_. Elves must not sweat.) He had an almost insufferable smirk on his face, and -- oh. Bloody Jesus, there was a very large, very dark hickey on his neck. No wonder he was in a good mood.

There wasn’t any actual seating arrangement in the dining hall, but he generally sat with the O’Reilly clan, which just meant she had to try to look anywhere else. It was made even worse when Lorna followed, walking slightly funny -- there was little of her neck that _wasn’t_ hickey, and Mairead had to rub her temples. Yes, they had a happy and fulfilling romantic life. That didn't mean she wanted to see the evidence.

Lorna sat, but Thranduil did not, right away. He strode to the far end of the hall, where he could see everyone. It was so unusual an action that a lull came over the conversations.

“Lorna and I were speaking last night,” he said, his voice carrying over all the hall. “I tend to forget, sometimes, that your kind are not like mine -- that you tire more easily. If those in the kitchens can prepare a day’s meals in advance, we will have a day or two of rest. The crops will hardly wither and die, should we leave them untended for that long.”

An unbridled cheer went up in response. Nobody had complained much about the workload, just because they were lucky to have food to work for, but that didn't mean they weren’t going to appreciate the hell out of a break. Even if the weather didn't hold, they’d have time to themselves, to do as they pleased. Mairead didn't really want to think about what he and Lorna were going to be doing with their time, because she could already guess. Why that continued to squick her, she didn't know; she wasn’t a prude when it came to anyone else in her life, but when it came to those two...no. Just...no.

“You look like you sucked on a lemon,” Lorna said, her eyes dancing with mirth. “Yes, I had fun last night. You don’t need to act like it’s so shocking.”

“It’s not shocking,” Mairead grumbled. “Just...uncomfortable.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Gran said. “You young people -- d’you think I wasn’t aware when my parents had their fun? It was a small bloody cottage. It’s just a fact’v life.”

“I’m aware of that,” Mairead said, peevish. “That doesn’t mean I’m thrilled by seeing the _evidence._ ”

Lorna burst out laughing. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you,” she said, stirring apple slices into her porridge.

Gran eyed her, and her sister, an unsettlingly evil glint in her blue eyes. “So tell me, allanah, is he any good at that?”

 _Oh, good_ God, Mairead thought, face flaming, even as Lorna cackled.

“You’ve got no bloody idea,” she said, eying her sister. “I’ve yet to find anything he _isn’t_ good at, honestly.”

Mairead gave up, taking her porridge and moving well out of earshot. This was not precisely how she’d wanted to start her day.

\----

Fëanor seemed determined to go off and pout, but like hell was Sharley allowing _that_ to happen. She still had work to do, and if she left him here, Lorna might do something awful to him. Sharley wouldn’t blame her, either, but it still wouldn’t help things at all.

He seemed to think he could hide from her, which was cute. All she had to do was focus on the immediate past, and follow his Time on an aimless tour of the lower levels.

She found him beside a waterfall, staring at nothing, and threw the stocking hat at him. “C’mon,” she said. “I really can’t leave you here, because I don’t know what Lorna would would. I _do_ know that I’d catch hell if she killed you and you turned up in the Halls of Mandos again.” Az would never let her live it down. Ever.

Fëanor would not look at her. “I am...sorry,” he said gruffly. “I should not have…”

“Hit me?” she asked. “Fëanor, I wanted you to hit me. That was kinda the point of that.”

“I should not have,” he repeated, a stubborn set to his jaw.

“Why?” she demanded, wishing she’d thought to grab a stick. “Because I’m a woman?”

“Because _I should not have_ ,” he snapped, rounding on her. “Self-control…”

“Fëanor,” she said, as patiently as she could, “aside from when you were busy crafting something, when have you _ever_ truly had self-control? You’re like...the Lord of the Lack of Impulse-Control. You couldn’t just wait to build your own ships, could you? It’s not like you’re not immortal or anything, and just didn't have the time -- nope, with you, impulse is action.”

“No,” he snarled, fists clenching.

“Oh, not when you’re crafting something, I’ll give you that,” she said, circling the pool. “ _Then_ you’ve got all the patience in the world -- in the damn universe. Rest of your life? Nope.”

His glare by now was downright murderous, and she grinned. “Go on, Fëanor, _hit me_. Come at me, bro!” She couldn’t say _that_ with a straight face, however; no sooner had the word ‘bro’ left her mouth than she laughed. It was a hoarse sound, rusty, and it felt good. She so rarely had cause for laughter, but Fëanor’s incredulous expression did it and then some.

 _“Oh my God,”_ Jimmy groaned. _“Did you actually just say that? Did that seriously come out of your mouth?”_

 _“It did,”_ Kurt said, and he sounded outright depressed. _“It actually did. Sharley...that’s a new low, even for you.”_

Fëanor continued to stare at her, looking as though he were convinced she’d lost whatever of her mind she still possessed. “No,” he said flatly.

“Oh, I’ll get you to do it sooner or later,” she said. “Trust me. I’ll snap what you think is your self-control.”

 _“Why the hell do you want to do that?”_ Layla asked.

“To prove a point. Because there is one, somewhere in all this,” Sharley said.

 _“You just keep telling yourself that,”_ Kurt muttered.

“I will, dammit. Put that hat on, Fëanor. We’ve got work to do.”

\----

In the kitchens, Sammie and Big Jamie took the idea of a break very, very seriously. All their assorted helpers worked flat-out to get bread and tarts baked, enough so that everyone could just relax and nibble tomorrow, spurred on by the thought of a day of nothing but vegetating.

“How d’you think the world’s getting on out there?” she asked, kneading dough. They had some blueberries, for once, and they were going in some tarts.

“No idea,” he said said, slicing apples with vim. “Somebody ought to go to the DMA and find out, since I doubt Bridie’ll tell us much’v anything. Damn tight-lipped, that one, and always has been.”

“None of you ever knew she was...Gifted, or whatever?” Martin asked.

“It’s not like anyone would’ve believed her if she’d said anything,” Jamie pointed out. “I mean...magic? And this is with us knowing there’d been an Elf lurking about since the dawn’v ever.”

“What’ll you do if more’v them turn up?” Jackie thumped another load of firewood beside the hearth with a grunt. “If he’s got actual, uh, subjects again?”

Orla, peeling apples, said, “I don’t think they can. I think there’s some rule against it, but Sharley went to wherever the Elves live now and asked for the ones she calls Team Elrond. I wouldn’t imagine it’s that easy to say no to her.”

“But if they did...we’d probably have problems,” Big Jamie said, sobering a little. “Right now, this is temporary. If we were going to be living down here forever, we’d have to think’v a lot’v permanent shit I wouldn’t even want to consider. Right now all I want to think about is a bloody day off.”

\----

Fëanor remained sullen as a lump, but Sharley was still unwilling to leave him behind. Stuffing the hat on his head, she all but dragged him through the Other and into Canada. The DMA had no Doors here; aid would be slow in coming. It would be to so many parts of the world, but unfortunately the only languages Sharley spoke were English and the native tongue of the Other -- and the second she didn't speak well, even if it had been of any use out here.

Even with her hair, she was just about capable of moving unnoticed, if she chose. Fëanor...was not. When they moved through fields of grain outside of the massive refugee camp, all near him stopped and stared.

It was sunny and warm here, at least, though not hot -- just ideal for growing crops, which were quite obviously being helped along by the Gifted. Here there was wheat, and corn, and some small apple trees. The chloropaths could, when it came to plants, do pretty much what she did -- they could speed up the growth drastically. The problem was that that took a lot of effort, and there weren’t anywhere near enough chloropaths to meet the need. Sharley didn't tire, and manipulating Time was actually rather easier than infusing life into something more rapidly than was natural.

“Don’t mind us,” she called, giving the field workers a wave. “DMA shit.” She hoped that would prove a good thing to say, and not a negative one, because reaction to the DMA aid had been mixed at best, and she didn't really wonder why. When everything that had gone disastrously wrong in the world was the fault of magic, it was fairly easy to hate it indiscriminately, regardless of how unwise that was. Humans could be irrational and stupid. She’d know, given she used to be one.

To her amusement, Fëanor looked interested almost in spite of himself -- though the admiring glances he was getting from some of those nearest were clearly making him edgy. At least he had wisely swapped the leather trousers for jeans, and wore a plain black T-shirt in place of anything more distinctive. Still, six and a half feet if inhuman prettiness was fairly impossible to disguise, and all she could do was roll her eyes, glad she was immune to that sort of...shit.

A short, sturdy woman of East Indian descent, approached, visibly curious and slightly apprehensive all at once. “You have come from the DMA?” she asked, her accent largely Canadian, but not entirely.

“We’re on their behalf,” Sharley said, which was entirely true. “Your crops aren’t anywhere near ready yet, but I can fix that. We can fix that.”

“And who is he?” the woman asked, eying Fëanor with unease.

“He’s...my apprentice,” Sharley said. “He’s shadowing me for a while.” She could feel his glower, which was entirely unfair, since she was pretty sure he didn't even know the word ‘apprentice’. Bastard.

“We will...stay out of your way, I suppose,” the woman said, looking ever more dubious. “Tell us, if you need aid.”

“We will, thanks.” It was a formality on both sides, but formalities made the world go round, apparently.

\----

Fëanor, in spite of himself, was grudgingly intrigued.

He had spent little time in the mortal world -- his stint in the village of Kirk had been it, and it had lasted mere days. To watch them now, as they worked their fields, was at once strange and familiar. They had the same manner of machines those of Lasgaelen had, but few were in use; for the most part, they worked as the Eldar had, with hand tools. Some were sun-browned, some oddly red, all grimly determined.

An unsettling number of them were pausing to watch them, though -- to watch him in particular, to his annoyance. _Why_ did they insist upon staring? Yes, the Eldar were fairer in appearance, but still. If there was one single thing he appreciated about Sharley, it was that she did not view him in this way -- thought it was admittedly also a touch insulting, it was nevertheless worth it.

He did not recognize the long rows of short, leafy stalks the approached, and despite his large disinterest in farming, he found himself intrigued -- even yet, something truly new intrigued him. “What is that?”

“Corn,” Sharley said. “C’mon, I'll show you what it’s supposed to do.”

Watching her, he had no idea how the others weren’t recoiling. Out in the sunshine, the fact that she was a dead woman was more evident than ever; the pallor of her skin looked entirely wrong in the bright light, and yet it was him people stared at. How did she do it? How _long_ could she do it? Thought of this crowd suddenly realizing what walked among them was morbidly amusing.

She gave him a look that was distinctly unimpressed, and only then did he realize he’d been smirking. Kneeling at the first row, she focused -- and yes, this never did get old, no matter how much he wished it would. Fëanor disliked being impressed by anything that was not himself -- though what he disliked most, at the moment, was being near Sharley at all. That he should have so forgotten himself as to strike her...he did not care that such had been her intent. She never should have managed it. He _did_ have control of himself, no matter what she said -- iron control. He always had. There had been no time to build ships; he and his had to pursue Morgoth in all haste...because. Because thought of him holding one of those precious gems a moment more than necessary was not to be borne. Sharlely must not understand how long it actually took to build a seaworthy vessel. Surely she did not.

Either she was oblivious or uncaring of his torment of mind, for she paid him no heed; she simply shut her eyes, and the row of corn rippled, shifted, shivered, a ghost-image of past and future flickering through the air. It was so faint that he doubted any of the mortals could see it, but _he_ could, and oh, it unsettled him, so very, very much. What Sharley did, and what Sharley was, were not natural; not even Vairë could alter the course and flow of time. To watch her was fascinating, yes, but it was also, the more he watched her do it, repelling.

What would she do if he left? If he took one of these vehicles, and simply drove off? Could she hunt him down?

He had an uneasy feeling she could.

The corn swelled, taller now even than him, and all around him the mortals murmured in surprise and unease. This must not be quite the way the chloropaths did things, if their reaction was any indication, but Sharley ignored them; she simply moved from row to row, the corn rustling and sighing in the faint breeze, smelling strangely bittersweet under the warm sun.

Would running count as, as she put it, ‘fucking up’? Or was that reserved for things like murder? It was a maddeningly imprecise non-specification. He wished to be rid of her -- her an her accusations, her maddening demands, the terrible stare of her mismatched eyes. He would, in this moment, take _Thranduil’s_ company over hers, and he remained convinced Thranduil was dangerously unhinged.

He could not run here. He was not sure it would be wise to _run_ at all, lest he violate the spirit of his promise, but he was nothing if not creative. As with everything, there were boundaries, and he always had been adept at pushing _those_.

\----

Thought of a day off spurred on absolutely everyone -- planters, harvesters, gatherers, everyone.

Mick and Siobhan, being among the smallest of the adults, could most easily kneel to bundle wheat. Like their younger sister, they were quite strong for their size, and once they’d got the hang of it, worked rather fast.

“What’ll you do with your day off?” he asked, gathering stalks.

“I want to go into that pub,” she said, “and have a drink, like a bloody civilized person. I don’t care that there’s no power -- it’s someplace aboveground, someplace _human_. Those halls, they’re beautiful, but…”

“Not home?” he offered. “I know.” Dust puffed up from beneath the stalks, and he sneezed. “Now that it’s getting warmer, I’m betting people’ll start moving back into their homes. I just wish…” He wished there was some small house to be found, something the three Donovans could live in. They hadn’t seen one another since adolescence, and there had not been enough time to properly reconnect -- but Lorna had been living with their other sister, and now seemed to have been dividing her time between Mairead’s and the Halls until the world tried to end. She was _married_ , strange as that seemed.

Mick had never actually managed _marriage_ himself, but somewhere he had a daughter -- a daughter whose mother wanted nothing to do with him, and he couldn't blame her. They were out in the world somewhere; dead or alive, he didn’t know. He had no way of knowing, and maybe he never would.

“Oi,” Siobhan said, poking him with a wheat stalk. “You’re miles away. I don’t want to be handling this by myself.”

As if on cue, Elladan and Elrohir appeared as if out of nowhere. Mick didn't think anyone could tell them apart, even now; hell, he suspected even their parents might have a tough time of it. The one on the right took the bundle from Siobhan, as easily as though it weighed nothing, but his gaze traveled between her and Mick.

“You look so...the same,” he said. “And Lorna. You are not twins? Any of you?”

Siobhan laughed. “No,” she said, rising. “No, but all four’v us -- we’ve got another brother, somewhere -- look a lot alike. There was some bastard at school who used to ask if we were clones, until Pat knocked his front teeth out.”

“Yeah, and then Lorna did for his younger brother,” Mick said dryly. “We all look like our da, the bastard. And we’re all even shorter.” He was, to his knowledge, the tallest of them; Mick hadn’t looked likely to have any massive growth spurts.

“You are not as small as Lorna,” the other twin pointed out, “but you are very...why are you so small?”

“Because genetics,” Siobhan said, dusting her hands on her jeans, “are a bitch. Being short’s no fun at all.”

No, it was not, but Mick suspected he wouldn’t want to be as tall as these Elves, either. Finding jeans or a mattress long enough would be a bitch in its own right; there was probably a reason all the beds in the Halls were so huge, and he really doubted it was because they’d had Elf orgies or anything like that. And at least he never needed to worry about cracking his head on the top of a doorframe when he walked through it. So, silver linings.

“D’you have anything planned for tomorrow?” he asked, tying up the last of his own bundle.

The twins looked at one another, and grinned. “Driving practice,” they said in unison.

Mick, out of lingering habit, crossed himself. If that ended at all well, he’d be very, very surprised.

\----

Lorna had made Thranduil go get _ointment_ from Elrond, though more because she hadn’t wanted to walk that far than out of actual embarrassment. Even so, working in the fields was not entirely pleasant -- but that was just the price one paid for fucking one’s husband senseless. The issue wouldn’t be nearly so bad if it wasn’t for his stamina, which would be as much a drawback as a blessing, at least as far as the next day was concerned. _Ow_. She wanted to spend at least part of tomorrow back in their bed, but if she remained sore like that, that wasn’t going to happen. Dammit.

“You,” Thranduil said, when she took a break for some water, “need to go and relax in the bathing hall. Just sit in the hot springs and soak, and I will fetch more ointment from Elrond.”

“Believe me, I’d love to,” she said, resting her head back against the tree-trunk behind her. “After dinner, that’s just what I’m going to do -- and you can’t come with me, because I know what’ll happen if you do. Knowing our luck, somebody’d come through the Door, and even I’ve got a _little_ shame. Enough that I don’t want to be an exhibitionist.”

He laughed, sitting beside her and pulling her close. “Even I have some limits, Firieth Dithen, and that is among them.”

“Well that’s good to know.” She watched the fields, and all the people tending them. “You know, I didn't realize how spoiled we’d all been, by living in the modern world. Even when I lived in the warehouse, we still had access to food, and even some running water. We didn't always know where the next meal was coming from, but we knew it could be found somewhere. Starvation was never a real prospect, and no work I’ve ever done’s been this hard physically. I’m sure Gran’d have all sorts’v shite to say about us younger people.”

“It is not your fault you are the products of the world you lived in,” he said, taking her canteen. “This was never necessary, for you. You have all adapted very well, all things considered.”

She hesitated. “A lot’v the people from Lasgaelen want to start going home, at least part’v the time,” she said. “They miss the sky.”

“Do you?” he asked, suddenly tense. She knew how much it would hurt him, if she were to tell him she didn't want to live in the Halls anymore.

“I see plenty’v sky when we’re outside,” she said gently. “Though I will admit, I _do_ miss showers. And electricity, but it’s not like they’ll have any’v that out here yet, either. Not for Christ knows how long.” She didn't know when the hell the electropaths would have time to get out here and fix their little private grid, but it would probably be a while, seeing as they weren’t exactly in a high-priority area.

“You are human, Firieth Dithen,” he said, handing back her canteen. She didn't think she was imagining his relief. “I cannot fault you if you wish to spend some of your time in your own world. We have the cottage in the woods, and we can stay with your sister, when you wish. I know how I would feel, if you were to ask me to live forever in your world, and I believe it would be the same for you. And surely those of your own people who wed spouses from lands far away do not spend all of their time in one place.”

Lorna rested her head against his shoulder, a gesture weighted with simple affection. “You’re right,” she said. “And if I wasn’t so sore down south, I’d drag you off into the forest and show you how much I appreciate it.”

“Tomorrow,” he said, placing a kiss on the crown of her head. “And if I must bring you some of your own Edain pain medicines later, I will.”

 _Now there’s romance_ , she thought, and fought a giggle. _When your husband offers to score you the good drugs because he’s gone and shagged you raw, you know he really loves you_. She lost her fight and burst out laughing, trying and failing to smother it against his sleeve. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.

\----

The Sharley-thing did not know where she was -- only that she was alone, and ever more hungry. 

She had walked and walked, and found nothing living, and she was hungry. So very, very, _very_ hungry. There had to be people, sooner or later. There had to be.

\----

Námo had been watching Fëanor’s progress with interest. He had been uncertain the ellon would take the opportunity granted to him, or if he would squander it, as he had squandered so much in his first life. To see him at least attempt to take it was something of a surprise, though a pleasant one.

He was not making Sharley’s life at all easy, but at least she was making him think. He had only begun to get anywhere -- thus far, thinking of the past was all he had managed, but it was far better than he had ever done until now. Provided Sharley did not throttle him, he stood a chance of redeeming himself.

Unfortunately, there was another who must be placed in her care. Námo had had entirely enough of him, forever lurking at the further Gates, being far more annoying than ever any of the Noldor had ever been. And because of the way the Halls were structured, there was no real way to keep him away; if he wanted to stay camped out at the Gates, there was nothing Námo could really do about it. Unfortunately.

This had gone on for _months_ , ever since the wretched man died -- a month should have been but half a blink to one of the Valar, but oh, Námo was beginning to understand how one could drag for a mortal.

Finally, entirely fed up, he actually left his Halls and went to petition Manwë. Never yet in all the ages had he done so, but really, this was getting out of hand. 

The Lord of the Valar, ageless and golden-haired, actually quirked an eyebrow at him. They had met in one of Yavanna’s garden’s, quite near the Halls, the evening sunlight streaming through the beech-boughs.

“There must be something you can do,” Námo sighed. “He is disturbing the rest of those in my care. I would send him to Sharley, as I did with Fëanor.”

“And if he fails?” Manwë asked, looking far too amused. “Should he perish again, he will simply return to haunting your doorstep.” He sobered. “There is something to redeem, in Fëanor. Fëanor was arrogant, and misguided, but this man...was born with something missing. Fëanor might have loved his creations more than his family, but he still did love them. His selfishness was not so all-encompassing. Although…”

He fell silent, staring at the darkening sky. “Perhaps he is irredeemable, but his presence may yet aid Fëanor. If we are wildly fortunate, each will annoy one another into better behavior -- though Sharley will not thank you, and more pressingly, neither will her father.”

 _That_ truly was...unfortunate. While Sharley held great power, she was young, and not at all a vengeful creature. Azarael, on the other hand, was not one Námo wished to cross, purely because the Other’s God of Death could make his life terribly irritating. There was no barring him from Aman; his Door could not be locked from this side.

Still, Azarael was the lesser of two annoyances. Short of petitioning Eru himself into altering whatever plane the souls of mortals departed to, there would be no getting rid of this aggravating spectre. “I would risk it,” Námo said. “If it fails, he returns to irritate me once more. If it succeeds...well. One can hope.”

“Then you must tell the man,” Manwë said. “And be ready for Sharley to throw something at you. Because she assuredly will. She and Raoul von Ratched do not, after all, have a pleasant history.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sharley. Poor, poor Sharley. She is going to hate absolutely EVERYTHING, though at least she won’t be alone.
> 
> Title means ‘Preparations and Problems’ in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my starving soul.


	65. Beannachtaí agus Míbhuntáistí

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter took forever, mostly because I had it almost done pretty early on and then had a hell of a time wrestling with the ending. At least it’s really long? 
> 
> So, generally I leave the smut in the Interludes, unless it’s actually plot-crucial. In this case it is, because Rule of Funny. In which the population of the Halls gets a day off (which naturally goes wrong), all Lorna and Thranduil want to do is fuck each other’s brains out (and nobody wants to let them), and Sharley hates absolutely everything in the entire universe (and spreads it around with a shovel).
> 
> Also, behold fabulous [fan art](https://kaprriss.deviantart.com/art/Lorna-696794477) for _Ettelëa_. (It's also on the series' page.) It is amazing and wonderful and done by the fabulous [Kaprriss](https://kaprriss.deviantart.com/), who takes commissions. Go check her out.

Lorna had been wise, and had gone for a soak in the hot springs after work. She was only a touch sore today, from work and from the activities of the night before last, and stretched luxuriously when she woke. While they were not without responsibilities -- they did, after all, have children -- they could spend at least part of this day right here.

Her ankles cracked when she flexed them, and Thranduil’s laugh rumbled behind her. “Why are your joints so noisy?” he asked, burying his face in her hair.

“Because I'm human,” she said, rolling to face him. Naturally, this just gave her a face full of hair -- his _and_ hers. “We do that,” she added, trying to swat it away. Thank God he didn't know any Cousin It jokes, or she’d be honor-bound to murder him.

He only laughed again, helping disentangle her. “At least it is not sneezing,” he said, and pulled her in for a lazy kiss. They could be lazy, too; the thought that there was nothing that actually had to happen so early made her happy to just lie there and taste him for a while, as a comfortable heat rose within her. 

She all but purred when he pulled her closer, until she was flush against him. His skin was so velvet-soft, warm against her, and she traced the curve of his spine with one hand, silken hair tickling over her fingers. One of them really ought to poke up the fire, but she was hardly about to stop what she was doing; Thranduil could keep her warm just fine on his own.

He kissed his way down her neck, along her breastbone, over her stomach, nudging her legs apart so he could touch and taste, and Lorna sighed in contentment. There was no urgency, just languid appreciation that grew and built on itself until her breath shortened, toes curling in anticipation.

She was entirely pulled out of it when something -- something very, very large -- crashed. The boom of it echoed through the chimney, so loud it actually rattled the ornaments on the mantelpiece.

“What in the--” She flailed, trying to sit up, and a rather grumpy Thranduil, pushed her right back down again, not missing a beat.

“It can wait,” he said, pausing only long enough to speak those three words, but it was no good. The moment was entirely ruined.

“I’m not sure it can,” she said, sitting up again. “Thranduil, it sounds like somebody bloody blew something up -- and it had to be close by.” Nobody was staying in the rooms nearest them -- Mairead had vacated in a hurry, and refused to come back, citing noises -- and there weren’t many others that close. Whatever it was, it had been as effective as a bucket of ice water.

He sat up himself, grumpier than ever, and she could immediately see why -- he was more than just _interested_ already. “I don’t care if the roof is caving in,” he said, but his tone suggested he didn't actually mean it.

“You stay here and don’t lose...that,” she said, rising and hunting for some trousers. If this wasn’t something bloody serious, someone was getting shanked over it.

Fuzzy pyjama trousers and a giant Pantera shirt would have to do -- she didn't even bother with slippers before hurrying out the door. The stone was damn chilly -- honestly, one of the biggest drawbacks about this place was how cold it could get, and especially the floors -- but they warmed up in a hurry as she ran.

The problem with hearing something through the chimneys was that it was almost impossible to pinpoint just where the hell it had come from. She couldn’t smell any smoke, which was a relief.

“I will possibly skin whoever is responsible for this,” Thranduil grumbled. She’d had no idea he was behind her, and it scared half the life out of her. “Whatever ‘this’ even is. I could not leave you to deal with it alone, Firieth Dithen.” He’d wrapped himself up in a velvet dressing gown, hair a dishevelled mess, and it was a bit more adorable than he would probably be comfortable with knowing.

“It can’t be anything _that_ bad,” she said, well aware that she was tempting Fate. She cast her telepathy out, wondering who was near….oh. Oh, no. Well, at least it wasn’t an actual emergency, though she couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she slowed down.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Mick,” she sighed. “Mick the Drunk. Him and his bloody eejit brother built a still, because they wanted poitín.” She wasn’t willing to look any deeper; all of this was surface thought, in fragments, but those two were fairly predictable. It didn't take a thorough examination of their minds to have a pretty good idea what they were doing.

“Why would they build one in secret?” Thranduil asked, his annoyance ever more visible. Given the manner in which he was holding his robe, she could guess why.

“I can take a guess,” Lorna said darkly. Knowing that pair, they hadn’t wanted to share any of it, and were just stupid enough to think they knew what they were doing. Unless someone was actually injured, she was going to throw them onto the dubious mercy of Big Jamie, and let him do what he would.

They were not, in the end, difficult to locate; their argument was far from quiet, and she let Thranduil shove the door to their flat open. Mercifully, there really wasn’t any fire -- it was merely pressure that had built up and not been released, but it must have been one hell of a _lot_ of pressure, given the pieces had blasted in a good ten-foot radius.

“I don’t...I don’t even want to know,” she said, eying the mess and both men. “You two, go find Big Jamie and let him do whatever he wants with you. I’ll know if you don’t, and it’ll just go worse for you.”

They looked at her, and at Thranduil, and fled without a word.

“Now that _that’s_ over with,” she sighed, “where were we?” She didn't for a moment think they’d actually do as they were told, but maybe she wouldn’t be in such a bad mood later.

“I know exactly where we were,” Thranduil said, lifting her off her feet. “And I won’t have you running off again.”

“It’s not like I _wanted_ to,” she protested, rolling her eyes.

“Even so.” Somehow, once they were within their flat once more, he managed to get her out of her trousers without setting her down. That took skill.

“Oh, hush, you.” As soon as he’d set her on the bed, dropping his own robe carelessly on the floor, she took enough of a break to go and deal with her bladder while he hunted down a condom. A quick brush of her teeth and she was back out into the bedroom, feeling a bit more human.

Thranduil, bless him, had dealt with the rubber all by himself this time, and the grin he gave her was downright sinful. That his hair was still mussed added a certain adorableness she just wasn’t going to mention.

Grinning, she hurried across the floor and tackled him backward onto the bed, and burst out laughing when it drove the breath from him. “Oops.”

“You really are a menace,” he said, grabbing her and rolling her under him, somehow managing to get them both back against the pillows. “Now where was I?”

Before she could say a thing, he was back between her legs, tongue and fingers sending her breath short and uneven. Once again he was being a fucking tease, too, because apparently he didn't really know any other way to be. Berk.

“Thranduil,” she managed, somehow keeping back a moan, “if you don't fuck me in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to be very, very annoyed.”

“Greedy,” he complained, but crept up her body, kissing the whole way, pausing only to nip at her neck before claiming her mouth. Which still was not what she had asked for, but hey, she’d take it, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“What can I say,” she said, when he finally let her up for air. “You’ve created a monster.”

“I’m so terribly sorry,” he deadpanned, and fortunately did as she’d asked before she had to resort to biting him.

Lorna sighed in contentment when he entered her, her hands tangling in his hair. She felt him smirk when he kissed her forehead, and without warning drove so hard and so deep it actually drew something like a cry from her, trailing into a moan when he did it again, and again. She’d never before realized how erotic a slower pace could be, but her nails dug into his shoulders, little shivers of pleasure building on themselves with in her. 

Thranduil tilted her chin up to kiss her, stroking her lightly with his other hand. A climax hit her out of absolutely nowhere, and she sank her teeth into his lower lip in sheer surprise--

Someone, some utter gobshite, was pounding on the door. Somehow, the annoyance of the interruption combined with her climax into something altogether odd and not entirely pleasant; her body sang with it, but her mind was utterly pulled out of the moment. Thranduil didn't so much as falter, which was far too distracting; she was tempted to try to ignore whoever it was, except they knocked again, more insistently.

Oh, for fuck’s _sake._

Lorna felt out with her telepathy, entirely ready to tell whoever it was to go get fucked so she could finish _getting_ fucked -- which really, really wasn’t an easy thing to do, given her husband seemed undeterred. His rhythm was mind-numbingly pleasurable, scattering her thoughts even as they formed.

The pounding came again, more insistent than ever. It was -- who the hell? Mairead. It was bloody _Mairead_...why? 

“Allanah, I really can’t figure out what she wants if you don’t let me think,” she sighed, even as she arched into him.

“Oh, who _is_ it?” he demanded, stilling.

“Mairead.” Now that she could string some mental coherence together, she sought the reason her damned sister would be interrupting them. “It’s...what the fuck?” She was getting panic, but also bits and pieces of… “Oh, good fucking God. Some’v the kids got into some’v the cordials in the healing wards, and now Elrond’s lost his shit.” Just… _how?_ Who the hell was watching them?

\----

Thranduil barely resisted the urge to throw something, which disturbed him. He should not even be considering throwing anything; he was still the Elvenking, for Eru’s sake, even though none of his people now remained.

Well, this could not be allowed to stand. As much as he had wanted to draw this out, he would not leave Lorna to suffer such frustration, and he wasn’t willing to do it himself. She was far too distracted by Mairead’s ridiculous news, but all he had to do was release the mental rein on his own lust to drag her attention right back where he wanted it. The bedroom door was open, and while the chamber door was heavy, he thought perhaps his hapless sister-by-marriage would hear enough to regret interrupting them. Was it heinously petty? Yes, yes it was. Did Thranduil, in that moment, actually care? No he did not.

Lorna shivered under the sudden influx of his desire, lips parting, and he smirked. The last time he’d seen her eyes so hazed with need had been their first encounter in the forest; he had not, at the time, realized how much of that was his own doing, but he knew it now. _I will not leave you wanting, Firieth Dithen_ , he said, and pressed her down into the mattress, taking her hard enough that she cried out for him beautifully, shuddering as she arched into him.

Normally he would have lasted much longer, but they had gone for months without; between that and his own mental insistence, he managed to force himself into a climax that left him breathless. While it irked him they couldn’t spend another two hours doing this, at least they had bled off some of their need.

“You did that on purpose,” she said, breathless beneath him. “Don’t try to tell me you didn't.”

“I do not know what you mean, Firieth Dithen,” he said, with all the dignity someone in his current position could actually summon. “But I feel better, and I am certain you do as well. Now find your trousers.”

Lorna burst out laughing as he broke free of her, dealing with the condom -- such unpleasant things, once they had been used. “And here you say _I’m_ the unromantic one,” she said, rising and hunting for her clothes. He smirked to see that her balance was a touch unsteady as she gathered her trousers and T-shirt; her hair was absolute mess, though his really was little better, and he fetched his comb once he was properly dressed himself.

When he emerged into the sitting room, he found Lorna had let in a very red-faced Mairead, who seemed to be looking absolutely anywhere but at the pair of them. “Children,” she said. “Some sick, some...high, some shitting everywhere. Elrond and Celebrían can’t handle it on their own, and their twins’re God knows where.”

“Probably doing doughnuts in the Market parking lot,” Lorna grumbled. “How many kids’re we talking here?”

“About fifty,” her sister groaned. “I’m not sure who in bloody hell was meant to be watching them, but evidently neither was anyone else.”

“Clearly we should have communicated more, before this day of rest,” Thranduil said irritably. His own people would not have needed any further clarification, but evidently common sense did not abound in his Halls these days.

“Right,” Mairead said, and while she did not actually flee, he suspected she very much wanted to. Perhaps that had been cruel of him, but he was not in a charitable mood; he would have to send some of his best, personal wine her way later. He would be tactful enough not to include a note saying, _I am sorry I made you listen to me seduce your little sister._

“This was not quite how I had intended to spend my morning,” Lorna muttered, shaking her head. “I hope there was nothing in those wards that could actually kill a kid.”

“I do not think so,” he said, and lifted her off her feet so he could actually walk at a reasonable pace. He ignored her slight _eep_ of surprise. “Our medicines are not like yours. One cannot truly be poisoned with them.” He was actually not quite so sure of that, but he was hardly going to say so right now. They could not poison any of the Eldar, no, but in sufficient quantities, he really didn't know what they would do to a mortal child. If Elrond was worried, he ought to be worried, too -- hence his hurry.

The healing wards, he found, were in fact a nightmare. Both Nuala and Healer Barry were doing what they could, but this was clearly more than fifty children -- the tables in the staging area were filled, but he could hear retching from the hallways and rooms beyond.

“You _want_ her to sick it up,” Nuala tried to explain to a panicked mother. “If she’s sicking it up, she’s getting it out’v her system.

“But what if she doesn’t _stop_?” the woman asked, pale with fright.

“That,” Thranduil said, “is why you have us. Lorna, if Elrond does not already have enough, we will be needing both hot and cold water.”

“Can do.” His wife did not do well with vomit; it was better to give her a task that would not involve dealing with it. Her relief was palpable as she scurried off.

This poor child was perhaps five, if he had his mortal years right, clammy and pallid and utterly miserable. “And what did you drink?” he asked, kneeling before her. “What color was it?”

“Red,” she said -- and immediately sicked up again, though at least she managed not to do it on any actual person.

Well, that could be any number of things. “Nuala, do you have the bottle near at hand?”

“She thinks it was this one,” Nuala said, passing it over.

Oh dear. If this was in fact it… “How much did you drink, little one?”

The little girl shrugged. “A few swallows.”

Imprecise, but that was probably the best he was going to get. “This was ipecac,” he said. “This little one will be miserable for a while, but she will, in the end, be fine. Once the sickness has past, make certain she drinks plenty of water. And in future,” he added, looking at the child, “refrain from drinking anything you do not know the name of.”

The child nodded, and sicked up. Again. Well, if nothing else, it would teach her.

When he rose, he could not help but wrinkle his nose -- he hadn’t smelled a stench like this in centuries, and he was sorely tempted to make the parents of these children clean the wards in penance for letting their offspring wander unsupervised.

Healer Barry, he found, was dealing with two pairs of siblings who had somehow managed to imbibe an entire bottle of poppy between them. _That_ worried him, until she said, “Elrond’s already been with them. He said they’ll sick it up.” 

Sure enough, one of them -- a boy of maybe seven -- did just that. All over the healer’s shoes.

He found Elrond busy mixing a cordial in the medicinal room. The one-time Lord of Rivendell was looking ever-so-slightly harassed, which meant he had to be near to, as the humans put it, ‘freaking out’.

“Evidently we had a pack of feral children roaming about,” he said, with a touch of caustic dryness that did not quite mask his worry.

“Who know no better than to drink strange substances,” Thranduil said, slightly more caustically. “I can only thank Eru none of these concoctions tasted particularly pleasant. If I had thought this likely to be a worry, I would have locked away all the cordials. This is not how any of us wished to spend our day of rest.”

“I know,” Elrond said, and his tone made Thranduil wonder just what this had interrupted for him.

The sound of someone projectile vomiting managed to penetrate the chamber’s walls, and both ellon sighed. A moment later, though, Thranduil surprised even himself by laughing. It was nearly silent laughter, his shoulders shaking with the effort of suppressing it. “Had anyone told me a thousand years ago this would once be my life, I would never have believed it. I am not a king, I am a landlord to twenty thousand mortals. Including roving bands of children who think it a good idea to drink something without knowing what it is.”

“I would not have thought it of you, once,” Elrond said, whisking at a bowl of water and powdered herbs. “I am uncertain if it was the isolation or the Edain who changed you so much.”

“Both, I would think,” Thranduil said wryly. “I was alone for far too long, and though I watched them, I did not make contact until Lorna entered my forest. I thought I knew much of them, until I actually met them. Then I realized how little I truly knew.”

He wasn’t surprised that Elrond _was_ surprised; prior to the Obliteration, he had been a very different person. While he gave aid to the Edain nearest -- it was, unfortunately, why they had such a substance as ipecac -- he did not allow them to dwell within the boundaries of his forest. The Wood-Elves had isolated themselves, from their own kin as well as most of the mortals around them; it had been, as he could admit to himself now, a combination of arrogance and wounded pride. That he had been denied one of the Three had rankled with him far more than any of his own knew, though he thought Anameleth had suspected.

And his people left him, a few at a time, and he was ever more bereft, but the Obliteration had laid him utterly low. Yes, he had changed in his isolation, and had spent several centuries a bitter shadow of himself -- until the mortals outside his forest began to advance. Until the Monaghans built their cottage so close to the edge of his forest, and he could quite easily view them. View and, he would freely admit, eventually harass. Those who had lived of old so close to the forest had been imbued with magic, as tough as mortals could be, but these were a different sort -- physically weaker, and yet so stubborn it carried them through. He had been morbidly curious as to what it would take to drive them away, and had been oddly pleased to discover the answer was ‘nothing’. 

Bridie had been the only one daring enough to speak to him -- and throw something at him. Once, that would have enraged him; by then he merely thought it amusing. After living so long alone, he took what amusement he could get.

He never, ever would have thought he would let the entire village down here, let alone it, a completely separate village, _and_ twenty thousand strange Edain. Even when he met Lorna, he would not have thought so; he had not anticipated becoming involved in the lives of her people until he realized how involved she was, and that to refuse her would only hurt her. That he had come to like and value them so was a surprise.

The sound of a child explosively voiding his or her bowels, however, made him question just how much it was worth it. Eru, this was not what he had wanted to do with his day.

\----

Eventually, the children were at least no longer actively ill, and Lorna set their parents to dealing with the worst of the mess. The kids would have to help with some of too later, but the parents were the ones who let them wander off unsupervised, and she was quite happy with Thranduil’s proposed punishment. She also wanted a bath, and she was determined not to take one alone. They always kept a stash of bread and cheese and nibbles in their flat -- they could have brunch there, though it was edging into lunchtime. Given all they’d been dealing with, at least she couldn’t say she was terribly hungry.

“I won’t be telling this story to our children,” she said, shaking her head. “Gran’s probably got them outside, or so I bloody hope.” They would have to all eat dinner together, because she couldn’t go the entire day without seeing them, even if it would have been fair to them. She and Thranduil had the afternoon to themselves, at least, and God help anyone who interrupted them for anything short of actual decapitation.

“At least they know better than to drink strange liquids,” Thranduil said, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Ten to one half the parents were doing what we were,” she said, unable to suppress a grin as she hunted down their stored nibbles.

“Yes, well, I have little sympathy,” he said, voice floating out from the bathroom as he plugged the stopper into the tub. A moment later, water was roaring from the tap, and he returned to her side. “We arranged care for our children, so that they would not spend the morning roving like a pack of wild dogs.”

He had a point, and she couldn’t deny it. They ate their dinner while the tub filled -- bread, cheese, and a bag of apples she’d kept back for their own enjoyment, as well as wine. This time there were no interruptions; they managed to spend the next few hours together, sometimes carnally, sometimes not. It had been far too long since they had been able to simply lie together and talk for more than ten minutes, because she tended to fall asleep shortly after going to bed.

“Do you know how lucky I count myself, that you were willing to come back to my bed?” he asked, smoothing his hand up and down her spine. “I was fully prepared for you to never allow me to touch you again.”

“And yet you married me, by your standards.” Her fingers were curled against his ribs, his skin warm beneath her hands. She was not going to point out that technically, she never had been in his bed like that until after their human wedding. “You’re a strange one, Thranduil.”

“So I have been told,” he said dryly. 

“You really would’ve been okay with it, if I'd cut you off for the rest’v ever?” She drew back enough to look up at him.

He smoothed his thumb over her cheekbone. “The gift I gave you was not one you asked for,” he said. “I would have understood, had you not wanted me to touch you again in this way. And I wish…” He sighed. “I wish I had not so overwhelmed you. I wish I had known that was what I was doing. It was...unfair of me, but I was not aware enough myself to know how much my desire influenced you. I wanted you the moment I saw you standing outside my forest that night, Firieth Dithen, and you stood no chance against that want when I failed to contain it in my own mind.”

This was new. He’d told her he hadn’t meant to mind-whammy her, and she believed him. Lorna hadn’t thought there was anything beyond that, though. “Well, it turned out fine,” she said, disturbed by how very guilty he sounded.

Thranduil shut his eyes. “Yes, but I know full well you would not have simply given yourself to me, had your mind been fully your own. I would have had to work to win your affections -- gone about courting you and then seducing you in the proper order. Instead I all but stole your will, and Lorna, if you never believe anything else of me, I swear I did not do that on purpose. I was as much a victim of my own lust as you were, and the fact that you enjoyed it does not justify it.”

Well...damn. She hadn’t given in a great deal of thought, because, well, why would she? It had turned out okay. More than okay. He hadn’t hunted her down afterward, hadn’t been super creepy -- oh, he’d spied, but he’d spied on all the residents of Lasgaelen. It wasn’t like he’d had much else to do with his time, and he had not, at that point, realized how fucking creepy that actually was. When he’d eventually made contact with her again, it had been at the pub, in public, and had asked her only to walk with him. When he kissed her good-bye, he’d asked first, and it had been the sweetest, most chaste kiss she had ever known.

“Thranduil, look at me,” she said, touching his jaw. When he opened his eyes, she saw the sadness in them. “Okay, yeah, it was weird, and no, I wouldn’t have done that if my mind hadn’t been a bit whammy’d, but you never pushed after that. You let me do things my own time, in my own way, and you never once said or did anything that made me think you were...impatient, or anything.”

He still didn't look convinced, and she carded her fingers through his hair, silky-soft and slightly tangled. “You fuck up, Thranduil, but one’v the things I love about you is the fact that you own it. You don’t try to make excuses. I’ve tried to be more like that, since I met you. Sometimes, what matters isn’t the mistake itself, but how you deal with it afterward.” She smiled a little. “After that, you were only creepy when you didn't know any better. You can learn, allanah, which is more than can be said for many.”

He took her hand in his, and kissed the back of it. “You forgive me, then, for my...creepiness?”

Lorna laughed. “Thranduil, I’m not stupid,” she said. “I see the way you look at me, when you think I’m not looking. I know you’ve got it in you to still be...creepy.”

His eyes widened. “Then why do you…?”

She poked the end of his nose with her free hand. “Because you know that it’s there, too, and you don’t let it affect anything. You keep it caged. There’s...look, there’s shite I haven’t told you about my past, too, and I’m still not ready to. Point is, I'm not a naturally good person -- I have to try. I know what it’s like, to fight something in your own nature. Since I came here I haven’t _had_ to fight it, but before that...well. I’ll tell you about it someday, when I can actually find words. Anyway, you have this in you, but you _know_ you have it, and you do what you have to do to deal with it.”

Leaning forward, she kissed him lightly. “We all have our demons, Thranduil. A person can either ignore them, or try to justify them -- or work with them. And as much as I don’t even want to think about it, you need to talk to Fëanor eventually. I know he’s a gobshite, but at least he made me want to jump your bones again, so there’s that.” She made a face at the very thought, though not as dreadful a one as he did. “You and I, that’s what we do. In the end, it’s the only good thing a person can do, and that’s why the way you look at me doesn't creep me out like it does everyone else. I know you better than that.”

His sigh of relief washed warm over her lips, and he pulled her against him, kissing her with a need that sent heat curling through her yet again. Sooner or later they needed to get out of this bed, but not yet.

\----

Many spent the morning simply being lazy (and drinking, a little or a lot), but by afternoon, most had emerged outdoors, enjoying a day of sun that didn't involve any work.

Mairead, close to being outright traumatized, drank rather more than she would have otherwise, and soon found herself quite at one with the world. She half-sat, half-lay on a rock cushioned with moss, watching the spears of sunlight that pierced through the canopy.

Sammie and Martin sat near her, as grateful as she to be outside, for once. All the poor residents of Kirk hadn’t had a day to just do as they pleased since they came to Lasgaelen, and many of them seemed content to explore and be slugs in equal measure.

“Never seen forest like this,” the former said. “Never really seen _forest_ at all. Is this normal, in Ireland?”

“Christ no,” Mairead said. “It’s the only patch’v really ancient forest left, and none’v us had ever come in until a year ago. We always wondered what it’d be like inside.”

“Why didn't you?” Martin asked, taking a swig of ale and immediately burping.

“Thranduil had a bit’v a...reputation,” she said. “An unfair one, given he’d never actually done any’v the things the stories said he did. There were all these stories’v him killing people who went into his forest, or knocking them up, if they were female. Lorna’s the only woman he’s sent up the yard, and he swears the only people who’ve ever died in here got lost and froze to death. It’s easier to do here than you’d think.”

“And you believe him?” Sammie asked. 

“I do. _We_ do. He’s...not what we’d expected, from a fae lord, though I’m not sure just how much’v that’s down to all his contact with humans. He’s never tried to hold himself above us -- he says we’re under his protection, but he’s never acted like a _king_.” She spat the word with a level of vitriol only the Irish were capable of. “He was alone for so long that I think maybe he forgot how to be one, or at least forgot how to be a gobshite about it. All that isolation made him bloody weird, sure, but he...cares. I wish I knew how to explain it better than that.”

Shannon and Kevin ran by, shrieking, spraying one another with water pistols. Niamh toddled after them as fast as she actually could.

“He could’ve been...he could’ve been creepy. If he’d actually been what the stories’ve always said’v him, he’d’ve dragged Lorna into those caverns and never let her out again, but he didn't. He came to the pub. He spent Christmas with us, and watched my eejit husband try to deep-fry a turkey and fail horribly. And he’s got a wicked sense’v humor, if you can tease it out’v him.”

“Sounds like he was just lonely,” Sammie said, stretching lazily.

“I’m not sure he knew just how lonely, either. D’you want to know something really sad? He wound up so drawn to Lorna because she was the first person who’s ever offered him something for nothing.”

Martin drained the rest of his bottle. “That,” he said, “is fucking tragic. I wonder where the hell he is right now.”

Mairead’s face flamed. “Oh, I know exactly where he is,” she said darkly. “Him and Lorna, and that’s all I’ll say about _that_. I had to go get them to help Elrond deal with all those children who were sicking and shitting everywhere.” She was never going to get those _sounds_ out of her head, though she’d damn well try.

Sammie took her meaning before Martin, because she burst out laughing. The woman looked far less careworn here, for all she was usually so busy. Mairead though she could understand why, too -- yes, they were busy, very much so, but some of the worries of the modern world hadn’t followed any of them here. No bills, no taxes...yes, there were things they all missed, electricity being chief among them, but in some ways it was worth it. Work was harder, but life was simpler. And she could not be sorry that her children weren’t being consumed by computer games and TV.

“Of all the things you don’t want to hear,” Sammie said, breaking her out of her reverie. “All those poor kids, though. I’d hope to hell none of them were from Kirk, because they’d better fucking well know better.”

“Some of them were wanting to know when we’d go home,” Martin sighed. “Dunno how to tell them home’s probably not there anymore.”

Mairead winced, because that really was a tough question to answer. “Is it very different there, in Alaska?”

“It is,” Sammie said. “In Kirk, the sea was...everything. It supported the fishermen that supported everyone else. The weather could be total shit half the year, and you never got rid of the damp, but it was beautiful, too. You’d get the most beautiful fucking sunsets, and sunrise could turn the water gold. Someday we’ve all gotta take a trip to your coast, because I'm not the only one who misses the smell of the ocean. There’s nothing quite like it.”

Mairead had been to the seashore; she thought she knew exactly what the woman meant. It was a briny, salty smell that she’d never encountered anywhere else. “Gran’s kept in touch with the DMA,” she said. “There was that bloody press conference, and now she goes back and forth between them a lot. The world outside’s still a mess, but it’s getting better. Another year or so and things won’t be back to normal, but they’ll be stable.” She didn't think their former ‘normal’ would be back for at least a decade, if ever. They’d been lucky here -- very lucky, and also shielded from what went on outside. It was why she -- and presumably all the others -- never resented just how hard the work actually was. It was tough, but they had a lot more than probably anyone else out in the world. Their diet was limited, but nobody went hungry, and they had warm rooms and very soft beds. There was no danger of...of _raiders_ , or anything like that. If the price of such safety was working their asses off, it was one most were willing to pay.

Still, she hoped like hell this day off would not be the last one. She was approaching forty, and her joints often let her know it. Though...Lorna would have been thirty in June, if June hadn’t already passed. Nobody had really kept track of the date, so far as she knew. Mairead remembered how old thirty had seemed at the time, though she thought it quite young now. She needed revenge for what she’d heard earlier today, and she would have it. Oh, she would have it.

\----

In Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom in which the Valar passed judgment, Tulkas was...pouting. There was no other word for it. His golden beard could not disguise his frown.

“I won’t do it,” he said, glowering at them from his throne. “Just throw him into the Void.”

“I cannot do that,” Námo said, as patiently as he could. “While he was a terrible mortal, and while he held great power among their kind, he was nevertheless merely mortal. I cannot toss someone into the Void merely for being annoying. Though believe me, I wish I could,” he added. Billions of mortal fëar had passed through his Halls over the Ages, but while some had lingered for a short time outside the gates, none had ever done so as long as _this_ one. And certainly, none had ever harassed others passing through, nor knocked on the gates and pestered him. Somehow, the man was bored with the afterlife, in spite of all its wonders.

“You just do not wish to deal with Sharley,” Oromë accused. 

“No,” Tulkas said, “I do not wish to deal with _Azarael_. I have heard… _stories_.”

Námo sighed. “He is not a wicked creature, Tulkas. I will confess that his sense of humor, such as it is, can be both dark and dry, but he is hardly Melkor.”

Tulkas’ scowl only grew blacker. “You would have me deliver unto his daughter a man who tormented her for two years, when she still lived. Has it yet occurred to you that she might well simply bring him back through her father’s Door? Evidently we cannot bar it. And if she does not kill him again, Azarael might.”

Both had occurred to Námo, and he knew that he would have to give her some incentive to avoid doing just that the moment she laid eyes on Von Ratched. He had been at a loss as to what that might be, until Vairë had made a suggestion.

“My wife has pointed out that Azarael made of her an imperfect creature,” he said. “She still resents what she has become, this being that is neither living nor dead. When we assume form, we do it at will; our hearts beat, our lungs breathe, and we need think on neither. Sharley is, in many ways, a walking corpse -- one that knows no effects of time, and one which cannot be destroyed, but a corpse nonetheless. He is clearly unable to teach her to be otherwise, but we could find a way to do so. If she will grant us this favor, we will aide her.”

Even Tulkas had to admit it was an elegant solution, but that didn't mean he was any more willing to escort this firith himself. “I still won’t do it.”

The Valar did not, as a general rule, roll their eyes. However, if they _did_ , now would be a perfect time. “Fine,” Oromë said, rising. “But I will extract it out of you later.”

\----

Sharley had taken pity on Fëanor and let him stay home for the day; currently, the two of them were in the village, watching Elladan and Elrohir try to drive. ‘Try’ being the operative word, because she’d introduced them to stick shifts in the hope it would slow them down a bit. So far, it was working. Disturbingly well.

 _“That,” Jimmy said_ , as the sound of grinding gears filled the air, _“is actually painful. Are you sure we should even be letting them do that?”_

“It keeps them busy,” she said. “It’s not like it can’t be fixed later. And they’ve mastered the fine art of ‘if you can’t find it, grind it’.”

Fëanor glanced at her sidewise, but by now he was used to her discussions with the voices. She was also pretty sure he wanted to try driving himself, but was too proud to actually ask. Fucking Elves and their fucking pride...at least the others weren’t so bad about it. Part of her was tempted to let him sit and stew, but the rest wanted to see what would happen if she put him behind the wheel of a stick again. He’d mastered it pretty well in Kirk, but it had also been a while, and the thought of testing that Elven memory was too good to pass up.

“C’mon,” she said, rising. “Go on and pick a car. We’ll show these kids how it’s done.”

He looked at her with blatant suspicion, as though unable to believe she would let him do anything fun. She couldn’t really be annoyed, though, because he had a point.

“Oh, go on.” She didn't actually poke him, but she kind of wanted to.

He went to peruse what was left, but a blinding flash of light seared all their eyeballs before he could even get close. One twin crashed into a streetlight pole, and the other sideswiped him. The crunch of metal and shatter of glass echoed through the silent, empty streets, and even Sharley winced. She was ready to grab for anything that could be used as a weapon -- Fëanor’s head would be wonderful, if he was close by -- but before she could take more than two steps, the flash receded.

 _“...What?”_ Jimmy asked flatly.

 _“Sharley, did you piss somebody off without any of us knowing about it?”_ Kurt added.

 _“No,”_ Layla said, circling her. _“Just...no.”_

Sharley had never seen this Vala before, but there was no mistaking him for anything else. Taller, taller than her, with long dark hair, a pale, stern face, and eyes that were nearly black. Who was this, who--? _Oromë_ , his history told here. Oromë, the Hunter. Dude with a temper. Dude with Von Ratched, who looked about as happy as a wet cat.

Dimly, she heard the sharp gasps of the Elves, but she was too busy reading Oromë’s history --

“No,” she said, echoing Layla. “ _No_. Nuh-uh. Take it back.”

“If you can see my history,” the Hunter said, his voice rich and sonorous, “then you would know what it is we offer, should you do this for us. We can teach you to be other than you are now.”

In literally _any other circumstances_ , she would have seriously considered it. What they offered was something she wanted so badly she could almost taste it -- and it really was ‘almost’, since taste, like smell, was largely lost to her. She would give much, to have what they would give her -- but she wasn’t sure she’d give this. “If you know the son of a bitch at all, you’ll know there’s no rehabilitating him,” she said. “None. I’d be doing everyone but Námo a favor if I just shanked him again.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Von Ratched said, scowling at the Vala. “I wished to return to Earth, but not like this.”

“Námo said you had requested his fëa,” Oromë said serenely.

“I thought we needed him,” she said. “Námo gave me that one instead, and on balance, I think I like him better.”

Fëanor, shockingly, seemed to be actually lost for words. How many Ages had it been, since he saw any of the Valar but Námo and Vairë? Probably longer ago than she had time to read right now.

“Námo will be pleased,” Oromë said, and now there was a dryness to his tone that grated. “Will you do this for us?”

Sharley eyed him. “What the hell are you gonna do if I say no?” she asked, genuinely curious. “D’you even have a backup plan?”

“Short of throwing him into the Void...no,” the Hunter admitted. “And Námo says that while he is wicked, he is not wicked enough to justify that. One does not open that gate lightly.”

Von Ratched, the bastard, actually looked somewhat pleased by the thought that anyone wanted to. He had, as she remembered, been something of a vain son of a bitch, in his own particular way.

She didn't want to do this. She really, _really_ didn't want to do, this, but… “You could teach me to breathe again? To have a heart that actually does something other than sit like a useless lump?”

“We can,” Oromë said, rather more kindly. “Do as you will with this one, and we will teach you to be what your father was unable to make of you.”

It was what she wanted, more than anything, and yet she hesitated. “Thranduil’d kick us out,” she said. “He already has a hard enough time with Fëanor, but Von Ratched kidnapped his wife and then tried to murder her. I’m not taking on _this_ asshole without somewhere to go.”

 _“Um, you do know what he’s been doing all day, right?”_ Kurt asked. _“He’d probably agree to damn near anything right now.”_

“We have an offer for him as well,” Oromë assured her. “One we do not grant lightly. I will walk with you, back to his Halls.”

In spite of herself, Sharley was curious. This was a disaster waiting to happen, and if she had any sense at all, she’d say no -- but she couldn’t bring herself to.

 _“This’ll all end in tears,”_ Layla said.

 _“Yeah,”_ Kurt said, _“but it’ll be fun to watch it crash and burn. Like the Hindenburg.”_

Sharley rolled her eyes. Trust Kurt to find something that horrifying funny. “All right,” she said. “Bombs away.”

Von Ratched smirked, and quite abruptly, an almost blinding rage swept through her. She seized the lines of his Time and _squeezed_ , hard. “Here’s the thing,” she said, the words a low almost-snarl, “you’re mortal, Von Ratched. _I’m not_. You can’t hurt me, but I can make you wish you were never born.”

He paled, but made no actual sound, which even Kurt was grudgingly impressed by. Sweat gathered at his temples, and Sharley squeezed harder, somewhat shocked at the vicious satisfaction it brought her.

“Sharley,” Oromë said, and she relented. For now. “I realize the temptation to torture him for his past sins, but that will not aid him.”

 _“Oh, like anything will aid him,”_ Jimmy said witheringly.

 _“I hate to say this, but the little moron has a point,”_ Sinsemilla sighed.

 _“Did you actually just call Jimmy a moron?”_ Layla asked. _“That’s not like you, Sinsemilla.”_

Sinsemilla sighed. How a voice that didn't breathe could sigh, Sharley didn't know, but sigh she did. _“Von Ratched, Layla._ Von Ratched. _Need I say anything more?”_

_“Actually, no, no you don’t.”_

Well, this was going to be just _wonderful_. If these four refused to shut up the whole time he was here, Sharley might just lose it for real. “Fine,” she said. “But if he misbehaves, I reserve the right to do that again.”

“So long as he has _truly_ misbehaved,” Oromë said, stern. “Annoying you is not just cause.”

“What do I do if he tries to run off? Because you know he will.”

Now the Hunter smiled. It was a sharp smile, with too many teeth. “Then we will hand him to your father.”

“Can you hand him to Az _now_?” That seemed like a far better solution.

“Not yet. In time, if he makes no progress, we will send him to your father for...education.”

Now, for the first time, Von Ratched actually looked a touch disturbed. Oromë must have told him just who her father was. She echoed the Hunter’s smile; maybe this wouldn’t be _quite_ so bad after all.

“In that case,” she said, “let’s go. Though good luck conning Thranduil into letting him stay. I don’t know what the hell you could offer him that would be worth it.” Try though she might, she couldn’t read that part in Oromë’s history -- there was too much in there, and she couldn’t focus with everything else going on. Elladan and Elrohir seemed about ready to piss themselves.

“Trust me,” Oromë said. “He will.”

The entire lot of them trooped through the forest, Fëanor close at her heels. He had many questions, and she refused to answer any of them yet. Not until she fully knew what the fuck was going on.

Evening was rapidly falling, the shadows lengthening beneath the trees. The Hunter walked in his own radiance, however, as though through moonlight that wasn’t actually there. Von Ratched moved in his wake, visibly displeased, and she wondered just how much worse she could make his life before crossing the line into unacceptable cruelty. She rather looked forward to finding out.

They picked up a lot of curious, confused, and uneasy onlookers, all of them staring at Oromë. Von Ratched was an imposing dude, but he had _nothing_ on the Hunter -- and Sharley knew he wouldn’t mind letting Oromë have the limelight. He always had been the sort of man who didn't want to be noticed unless he chose to. 

Thranduil would notice him, all right. Sharley was morbidly curious as to what he’d do; he was unlikely to attack the bastard with Oromë right there, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t afterward. And if that happened, Sharley would let him, a bit.

\----

Lorna and Thranduil were dressed and respectable by dinner, eating in the dining hall with a twin on each lap. Their children had grown so fast they were eating solid foods by now, though they tended to like to play with it first, as small children usually did.

In spite of the unfortunate incident in the healing wards, most of the people seemed much better off after their day of rest. Lorna figured they ought to make a regular thing of it, even if it couldn’t necessarily be every week. It would have to be planned around the farming and the weather, but she’d bet it would work.

“Mam, will today be tomorrow?” Saoirse asked, looking up at her with green, green eyes.

“You mean, will everyone play again tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“No, tomorrow we have to go back to work, but everyone will play again someday. Someday soon.”

Saoirse frowned. “When?”

“The next time we can,” Lorna said. “We’ll know when.”

Her daughter scowled. “Fuck.”

Thranduil didn’t actually laugh, but Lorna could feel his shoulders shaking. Though she had tried very hard not to swear around them, they’d picked it up anyway -- partly, she was sure, from Gran. “Not at the dinner table, Saoirse,” he admonished.

“Shit?” she offered.

“Not that one, either. Eat your food, you little monkey, and you can go play again later.”

Saoirse rolled her eyes, but did as she was told. For once.

The volume of the babble rose at the far end of the Hall, near the doors; exclamations of surprise, mostly, but a few of alarm. Lorna, of course was too fucking short to see what it was, even when she lifted Saoirse into her arms and stood. Thranduil rose as well, and his expression went very, very strange. Silence fell in a wave, starting with those nearest them.

 _What is it?_ she asked. 

_I do not fully know, but already I do not like it_. He strode out into the center of the room, and to her immense surprise, he inclined his head. “You bring me unwanted quarry, Lord Oromoë,” he said, and somehow his tone managed to be one of both respect and barely restrained fury. “That _creature_ is not welcome in my Halls.”

 _Lord…?_ Who would Thranduil be calling ‘Lord’? One of the Valar? Oh good Jesus. He’d mentioned rather little of them, but as she understood it, they were basically gods. Hefting Saoirse in her arms, moved out from the table a little ways, so she wasn’t stuck trying to look through a line of heads.

“...No,” she said flatly. “ _No_. You get that disgusting piece’v shit out’v here before I pop his head like a fucking _grape_.”

“ _Lorna_ ,” Thranduil said, low and urgent. “You cannot talk to the Valar that way. No matter what form of trash they bring into your home.”

“Why not?” she demanded.

“Because they are the _Valar_. My apologies, Lord Hunter, but my wife does have a singularly terrible history with that thing,” Thranduil said. “Dare I ask why he has been brought here?”

“Námo is tired of him,” the Valar -- Vala? -- said bluntly. “We have given him to Sharley, to see what she might do with him. She says that you will not allow him to stay within your Halls.”

“Nor will I,” Thranduil said flatly. “Fëanor is bad enough, but we have adapted to him. Von Ratched, on the other hand, tried to murder my wife, and very nearly succeeded. Were you not here, my Lord, I would let her do as she wishes to him.”

Lorna bit her tongue so hard it bled, because there was a whole lot she’d like to add to that, but she doubted it would be of any actual use.

Saoirse looked up at her. “Gobshite?” she asked solemnly.

“The worst, my girl,” Lorna said, choking on a laugh in spite of herself. “The absolute worst.”

“I would speak with you, Elvenking, and your lady,” Oromë said, “in private. I know you do not wish this man to dwell within your Halls, but the Valar have something to offer you in return. Something you desperately seek.”

Lorna looked at Thranduil, and he at her. _I’m not sure what they’ve got that could be good enough, but I suppose we have to hear him out._

 _We do indeed_ , he said. “Then come, my Lord, to my study. But I would ask that he not be there.”

The Hunter turned his dark-haired head to Sharley. “Will you watch him?” he asked.

“I might as well get the practice in,” she sighed. “Fëanor, you get to help me poke him with a stick if he gets outta line. We just need the right stick.”

That made Lorna choke on another laugh, though she still glowered at Von Ratched as she passed, and did not actually resist the urge to spit at his feet. Sue her. The man mind-raped her and nearly killed her. She would happily help with poking him with a stick. Shit, she’d hold him down.

Saoirse didn't know why her mother was so annoyed at the bastard, of course, but she stuck her tongue out and blew a loud, wet raspberry, scowling.

Thranduil led them of them to the study, setting Shane down before lighting lamps and stoking up the fire. He went to sit with his mother, though having both him and Saoirse on her lap was a bit much.

Being Thranduil, her husband of course poured this Vala/Valar/whatever some wine -- the really good shit, no less -- and beckoned him to sit.

“I will not stay long,” the -- Hunter? Was that what Thranduil had called him? -- said. “You have much hatred for that man, and it is justified. You also have no compelling reason to allow him to linger, but I can offer you one. I can give you what you want, most desperately.”

Thranduil stared at him, wide-eyed, but Lorna wasn’t quite following. “You can…?” he whispered.

“Do this for us, and we will either grant your wife the life of the Eldar, or you the mortal life of the Edain.”

Thranduil actually dropped his wine, and Lorna stared, speechless. 

Saoirse, however, was not. She looked at her mother, and at her father, and said, “What the fuck?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s pretty much the only thing that would induce Thranduil to let Von Ratched linger anywhere within five miles of his Halls. The Valar know him well.
> 
> Title means “Blessings and Misfortunes” in Irish. As ever, your reviews fuel my starving soul.


	66. Cuairteoirí Neamhfháilte agus Nuacht Neamhfháilte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, latest chapter ever. In which Oromë finishes blowing Lorna and Thranduil’s minds, Memory!Sharley finally finds a small group of people and chows down, Fëanor and Von Ratched do not get along (what a surprise), and Sharley wants to murder everyone.

For once in her life, Lorna couldn’t summon words. None. They were nowhere to be found. Had she honestly just heard that? Had this Vala just offered her and Thranduil a choice like  _ that _ , just so they would baby-sit Von Ratched and keep him out of their hair? 

 

_ Jesus _ , she wondered, staring at Oromë,  _ just what has that bastard been doing, that’s so annoying?  _ To be offered such a thing...the Valar must be desperate. Either that or they felt really sorry for Thranduil.

 

“You have ten years to reach your decision,” the Vala said. “It is not something to be reached lightly.”

 

“No,” she said faintly, sitting on the edge of the desk, “no, it isn’t.” How could they make such a decision? Either way, one of them would lose everything, sooner or later. If she chose immortality, all of her family and friends would grow old and die without her, but if Thranduil chose mortality, he would never see his oldest son again -- and he would be forced to age, which she had a feeling he would hate, because it would be so unnatural to him.

 

And what about the twins? They had a choice to make, too -- one that shouldn’t be influenced by their parents. Ten wasn’t very old, even for human kids.

 

_ Not now _ , she told herself. “So how long do we need to keep Von Dickcheese?” she asked, ignoring Thranduil’s wince.

 

Something like amusement entered Oromë’s pale face. “Part of why we make you such an offer is that we do not know,” he said. “He will age, as your kind do, and in time die.”

 

“I cannot say I like the thought of that man spending another forty or fifty years in my Halls,” Thranduil said, though he still looked as stunned as Lorna felt. It was not a look she had ever seen on him, and it disturbed her. “If one can even call him such.”

 

“In honesty, I would not,” Oromë said, tilting his head to the side. His grey eyes were more piercing than she was strictly comfortable with. “Not yet. Perhaps he never will be, but nothing is born evil. Even Morgoth was once a creature of light.”

 

Lorna caught Thranduil’s answering thought -- she had no choice, he projected it that loudly:  _ not for very long.  _ That was a story she needed later, though she wasn’t sure she would enjoy it. “So how do we...un-evil him?” 

 

“That,” Oromë said, “none of us know. Though I think, perhaps, that he and Fëanor will do much for one another. It is difficult to be so arrogant when one has such competition.”

 

Yes, yes it would be. Fëanor was an immortal supergenius, but Von Ratched himself, from all she had figured, was something of a genius’s genius himself. Fëanor had made things, even if they’d ultimately caused nothing but trouble, whereas she questioned whether or not Von Ratched had ever  _ made  _ anything in his life. Fëanor was beyond ancient, and had experience, if not wisdom, that Von Ratched could only envy. Lorna didn't doubt his mind was far more powerful, either; there would be no getting into  _ his  _ head -- but Von Ratched had telekinesis, and out of all of them, she was the only one who had that as well.

 

“Does he still possess his magic?” Thranduil asked.

 

Oromë sighed. “Yes,” he said. “To try to strip him of it would be to kill him a second time, and we would be right back where we began. We have suppressed it, but that binding may not last. Magic of his kind is alien to us; it comes not from Eru, but from some source beyond the bounds of Arda.”

 

“I thought Eru created everything,” Lorna protested. Finding out there was an actual equivalent to God had been quite a bit to swallow, but she’d got there eventually.

 

“He created everything in  _ this  _ universe,” Oromë said. “There are more than one. The world from which Sharley hails is not connected to Eä at all, and it is not alone in that. Even we do not know how many there truly are.”

 

_ I find myself less than reassured by that,  _ Thranduil sent her. The feeling was most decidedly mutual.

 

“So how do we make sure he behaves?” she asked. “He doesn't have any actual reason not to just fuck off somewhere else as soon as you’re gone.”

 

The smile Oromë gave her was downright unsettling. “Yes, he does,” he said. “Sharley. He cannot escape her. She does not sleep, and she could follow the line of his Time wherever he went. She is also capable of making him long for death, should she choose. He now knows of this, for she was all too happy to demonstrate when first we arrived.”

 

Somehow, Lorna didn't think that would stop him; at least, not right off. He was a stubborn son of a bitch, and she couldn’t imagine him content to stay within boundaries not set by him -- no matter what the consequence to himself. He didn't seem the sort to let pain deter him. “What if he misbehaves anyway?” she asked. “What can we do to him?”  _ Because I would love to crucify him onto something. _

 

One dark eyebrow twitched, almost imperceptibly. “While I leave that to your discretion, neither you nor he would gain anything, should you torment him. Your family and Thranduil have done much to heal your temper, Lorna. Do not let him feed it. You are, though you might not believe it, better than that.”

 

_ Am I?  _ she wondered, genuinely unsure. She wanted to hurt that bastard -- wanted to so strongly she could taste it. That he’d stabbed her was almost secondary to what he’d done to her mind. How long it had poisoned her, rendered any thought of sensual time with her husband an unthinkable horror. “Has he paid?” she asked, after a pause. “Has he suffered?”

 

“Not as you would wish,” Oromë said, “and forcing him to will teach him nothing.”

 

She stared at him. “You honestly think he’s capable’v learning  _ anything _ ?” she asked, her disbelief plain.

 

“That,” the Hunter said, “remains to be seen.” He was gone before she -- or anyone -- could say anything more.

 

“Well...shit,” she sighed.

 

\----

 

Sharley was Not Happy. Not even remotely. Yeah, she had a very good reason for doing this, but that didn't mean she had to like it. She glowered at Von Ratched -- as did Fëanor, bless him. He knew nothing about Von Ratched beyond what he had been told, but what he’d been told was more than bad enough.

 

“So,” she said, “do I lock you in the dungeon? We finally dumped all the government flunkies in Russia.”

 

“Do you really think the dungeon would hold me?” Von Ratched asked, quirking an eyebrow.

 

_ “It would if we broke both your legs,”  _ Jimmy said. 

 

“And believe me, that's tempting,” Sharley muttered. “All right, here’s the thing, Von Ratched: I want what they’re offering me. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna go easy on you. You don't do what I say, when I say it, I’ll make you wish you’d never met me. Shit, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. You’d better start thinking about yourself as a slave, because  _ guess what you are. _ ”

 

Fëanor looked at her, visibly disturbed. “You will torture him?”

 

“Only if he breaks the rules,” she said, still eying Von Ratched. “If he does everything he’s told, immediately and without protest, he’ll be fine. Otherwise...nope.” Perhaps she couldn’t get away with needlessly torturing him, but she was more than happy to make him very aware that right now, he was a powerless nothing. A piece of shit with no autonomy, allowed no free will.

 

Von Ratched eyed her back, wary. He was an arrogant man, yes, but not a stupid one; she’d demonstrated that she was a very real threat, and not, she was sure, one he would test right off. He’d probably wait for her to grow complacent, or to get sick of watching him so closely -- something that might have happened, if she was still human. Proving him wrong sounded like more fun than it likely ought to.

 

Pitting these two against one another could be amusing, too. Von Ratched had never run up against anyone who came even close to matching his genius, let alone rivaling it. Fëanor was not only brilliant, he was very, very old, and possessed of skills Von Ratched could only dream of. Anything that could knock this bastard down a peg or ten was welcome -- and Fëanor might benefit from having someone who could truly annoy him around.

 

Well. This would suck, but it could be worse.

 

\----

 

Azarael was beyond fed up.  _ How  _ had this Memory-thing eluded them for so long? Yes, Earth was much, much larger than the Other, but it was the sole Memory in all that world. Such a creature should have stood out like a beacon, and yet he could not find it. He, the God of Death, who should be able to locate  _ anyone _ , still had no idea where the wretched creature was. It should not have been possible -- but then, in the Other, the impossible was normal. He should not be surprised.

 

“You realize there’s one obvious explanation, right?” Jary asked. “Maybe we can’t find it because it’s not a real Memory anymore.”

 

It was not a thought he liked, and yet it was not without merit. “Even so, neither is it human,” he said. “I know where Sharley is, and the few Elves; they are very obvious in their difference. This creature should be the same.”

 

“Well, it’s not like the Memories were ever natural to begin with,” Jary said, and sighed. “But what makes you think she can find it? We don't know where it started out on Earth, and if we can’t give her that, she can’t follow its Time.”

 

Now it was Azarael who sighed. “Like it or not, the thing was created from her. There is a possibility she can trace it, somehow.” It was frustratingly vague, and even he knew it, but it was better than striking blindly all over the face of the Earth for the thing. He had never had to do so for anything, and he didn't intend to continue it now.

 

Jary sighed. “Well, good luck with that. I can’t go to Earth.”

 

“Actually,” he said, “you can, if I take you. You cannot leave for long, but time on Earth passes far more swiftly than it does in the Other.”

 

She eyed him warily. “You don't want to face her on your own, do you,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

 

“Would you, if you were me?”

 

“...Good point.”

 

\----

 

Finally,  _ finally  _ the Sharley-thing had found living people. Not many -- a small campsite -- but still. To consume them, and then their Memories, left her feeling...well,  _ feeling _ . The sensation of wind over her skin, the warmth of the sun -- for the first time, she truly registered it. The soft, worn white cotton of her tank top was fascinating beneath her fingers, and she wanted more.

 

But for that, she needed more people. Sharley could drive, and the Sharley-thing had some memory of how. None of these vehicles had much fuel, but some was better than nothing.

 

\----

 

Sharley really, really wished alcohol actually did anything to her, because God  _ damn  _ she wanted a drink. Hell, she wanted Thranduil’s entire wine cellar. 

 

_ “The whole point of you doing this is so booze actually  _ will  _ do something,”  _ Jimmy said, clearly hoping to be encouraging.  _ “Come on, what’s he gonna do? He’s not stupid, and right now he knows fuck-all about where he is.” _

 

“Yes he does,” she growled. “He knows whatever Lorna knew, at the time he caught her. And she knew way too much by that point.”

 

_ “Well...shit,”  _ Layla said.

 

“You still have those voices?” Von Ratched asked. 

 

Oh, she hated having him behind her, but there was only so much room on the walkway. She hated the idea of having him sleeping nearby even more, but it was the only smart thing to do; they’d had to do some shifting, but the apartment on the right of hers was now empty. Fëanor had the one to her left, and she was not surprised he refused to share -- especially with someone like Von Ratched.

 

“Fuck off,” she said, glancing at Fëanor and rolling her eyes. Never, ever would she have thought he would prove to be the lesser of two annoyances, but he was. He really, really was. He was an annoyance she was used to -- and yet, in all truth, he’d done some shit that put Von Ratched to shame. Yeah, Von Ratched had done some awful human experimentation, and had once toppled a government for annoying him, but Fëanor had been responsible for death and destruction on a massive scale. Him and his magic lightbulbs were, both directly and indirectly, responsible for most of the world’s misery not directly caused by fucking  _ Morgoth _ . And yet, somehow, he was not abhorrent in the same manner as Von Ratched. Sharley hoped that wasn’t just personal bias there, given that she did have a rather nasty history with that fucker that she lacked with Fëanor.

 

“I will take that as a yes,” Von Ratched said dryly.

 

Incredibly, Fëanor rolled his eyes as well. It was possible he irritated her less because, despite the fact that his crimes were more severe, he actually  _ knew _ he’d fucked up. He knew it, and felt as though he didn't deserve forgiveness, whereas Von Ratched couldn’t possibly understand why he should want such a thing in the first place. Fëanor was actually sorry he’d been such a murderous asshole, and acknowledged that what he’d done was wrong. Von Ratched, so far as Sharley knew, was incapable of realizing he’d done anything wrong at all. And somehow, she was supposed to teach him how to be Fëanor. Who the hell had she pissed off, to get stuck with this?

 

She had no idea, but when they reached Von Ratched’s new flat, she said, “Okay, here’s the deal: if you leave this flat, I’ll know. I don't care how sneaky you think you’re being -- wherever you go, I can find you. Even you need to sleep sometime, but I don't, and if you step so much as a foot outside this door, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. What I did to you earlier’s just a fraction of what I could visit on you.” Part of her -- likely a part fueled by Kurt -- hoped he’d fuck up. She might have promised not to harm or torment him for no reason, but if he actually  _ gave _ her a reason...well, she couldn’t say she’d be sorry.

 

He looked down at her (and the fact that he could do that had always pissed her off) and arched an eyebrow. “Very well,” he said. “How do meals in this place work?”

 

“Generally, there’s the Dining Hall, but if you think I’m gonna bring you out among civilized people yet, think again,” she said. “I’ll bring you food until I think I can trust you.”

 

“But will you ever trust me?” he asked dryly.

 

“That’s up to you,” she retorted. “Impress me.”

 

She left as soon as he’d shut the door, massaging her temples. She wasn’t capable of headaches anymore, and yet she thought she felt a phantom one coming on. “Fuck everything,” she sighed.

 

Fëanor, surprisingly, followed her into her own flat -- or perhaps not so surprisingly, given the level of his innate curiosity. “You seem to have an unusual hatred of him,” he prodded, as she lit some lamps and poked up the fire.

 

“You could call it that,” she snorted, and flopped on her sofa. He took up residence in one of the fat armchairs. “I was his prisoner, when I was human. He ran all kindsa...tests. Most of them were painful, and I’m not sure how many of them were actually worth a damn.” She scowled, and stared into the fire. “He liked to see how much pain I could handle, before I passed out. Liked to test how my blood pressure went -- human bodies do some weird shit when they’re in pain, and apparently mine was weirder than most. The fact that I never screamed interested him, too.”

 

“He did  _ what? _ ” When she looked at Fëanor, she saw his expression was one of open revulsion. “I would be the first to admit that my own crimes were inexcusable, but even I never tortured anyone. I murdered my own kin, but I never drew it out.”

 

“Whereas he didn't kill a whole lotta people, but he tortured more than I care to count,” Sharley sighed. “And we’re stuck with him. Yay. I really want to know what he’s been doing, that the Valar would dump him with us.”

 

_ “Dunno if  _ I _ do,”  _ Jimmy muttered.

 

_ “Actually, that’s a good question,”  _ Sinsemilla said.  _ “He can’t have been killing or hurting anyone in the afterlife, I'd think. I doubt that’s how it works.” _

 

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find out sooner or later,” Sharley muttered. “I wonder of that elf wine would give me even a little buzz?”

 

_ “...Uh-oh,”  _ Layla said.  _ “Um...uh-oh. Sharley, Az and Jary are here. Out near the smithy.” _

 

“Where the hell is the smithy?” Sharley growled, rising. If this meant anything even remotely good, she’d be very surprised.

 

“What is it?” Fëanor asked, rising as well.

 

“My father, apparently,” she said. “ _ And  _ my foster-mother, who I didn't think could even  _ leave  _ the Other. Stay here.”

 

“I think not,” he said, ignoring her glower. “Look at it this way: if Von Ratched tries to misbehave and I am not here to stop him, you can torment him later.”

 

She eyed him. “Your logic disturbs me, and yet I like it. Fine, c’mon. I guess we get to go find the fucking smithy.”

 

_ “We’ll give you directions,”  _ Sinsemilla said.

 

“Oh yay.”

 

Fëanor followed her out into the corridor, and fortunately for him, he didn't appear amused. “What is it you speak to, these voices of yours?”

 

“Dunno. I’ve had them as far back as I can remember, but they’ve never told me what they are. Not sure if it’s because they can’t, or because they don't know themselves.”

 

_ “Oh, we know,”  _ Jimmy said. 

 

“How many are there?” 

 

Sharley paused. “Four,” she said. “You’re an Elf, and you’re old. You should have some kinda telepathic ability, right? More than a younger Elf?”

 

The wary look he gave her nearly made her laugh. “No,” he said firmly. “I am curious, but I am not  _ that  _ curious.”

 

“Riiiight,” she said. “Because I so buy that. C’mon, let’s go see what fresh hell Azarael has for us  _ now _ .”

 

\----

 

Jary really, really needed to get out of the Other more often. It had been four hundred years since her home world had held anything green and living that wasn’t cultivated indoors. There was  _ moisture  _ here. Four centuries wasn’t exactly long, by her reckoning, but the parched, metallic air of the Other certainly made it seem longer. It was a husk of a world now, but this place was still very alive.

 

This looked like a forge; there were workstations with fire-pits and anvils, stone tables and an assortment of equipment, including a dozen hammers of various sizes. Azarael’s fortress had one, too, and just as huge -- though in his case, she couldn’t imagine why, since he was the only one that ever used it. Once upon a time this one must have been all but deafening, dozens of smiths hard at work in the heat, but it was empty now, the fires long since darkened. 

 

“So where do we go?” she asked. If only she could bring all the kids here...so many of them had forgotten what Earth was like. Their memories of blue sky were distant, faded, as was any recollection of fresh air and rain.

 

“We find Sharley,” Azarael said, “if she does not find us first.”

 

Jary ran her hand over one of the stone tables, breathing in the sweet damp air. “It seems like the Other was like this just yesterday,” she said, “but also like it’s been the way it is a lot longer than four hundred fucking years.” She knew that Time in the other was wonky, but even so, the three of them -- her, Tanya, and Azarael -- shouldn’t feel it. They were ageless, timeless, and yet sometimes it got to even them.

 

Azarael made a rather neutral noise, and she looked at him. “You were from here, originally,” she said. “ _ You  _ could actually leave the Other for good, if you wanted to, so why do you stay?”

 

“Earth is no longer my home, and that the Other has become what it is now is in large part my fault,” he said bluntly. “I do not belong here, and my actions led to the destruction of the Other. And I will say no more on that.”

 

She arched an eyebrow. Well.

 

The pair of them left the forge, traveling through empty corridors -- though they did not remain empty for long. Humans, humans everywhere, of all ages and races and sizes, though many were either older for their kind, or children. It had been a long while since she’d been around any large number of living humans who weren’t her crew of children, and the sight of them cheered her in spite of it all. Yeah, they scattered out of Azarael’s way, but Az was such a grim bastard that she didn't blame them. What he must look like to mortals, she couldn’t imagine, and didn't particularly want to.

 

They met up with Sharley in what looked to be a dining hall every bit as massive as something in Azarael’s fortress, though far more welcoming. The lamps were golden, and a shaft of sunlight pierced down from...something. She could see no hole in the ceiling, and yet there was sunlight. The long tables were not unlike those on board her ship, though rather wider -- and they too were filled with humans, all of whom froze.

 

Were Az anyone else, he might have rolled his eyes; Jary suspected he wanted to anyway. He liked to pretend he was so lofty and elevated above the rest of them, and maybe he was, at one point. He’d been in the Other for five thousand years, however, and it had rubbed off on him, whether he wanted to admit it or not. (And he didn't. He utterly refused, and apparently genuinely thought he was fooling anyone but himself.)

 

“I’m totally sure I don't want to know,” Sharley said, striding in after them. “Az, just... _ what _ ?” It was Jary her eyes lingered on, however. For Azarael to leave the Other was a rarity, but for Jary, it ought to have been an impossibility. 

 

“Indeed you do not,” her father said, eying Fëanor. The Elf seemed somehow annoyed and curious all at once. “It is not, I think, a conversation that should be had in public.”

 

“Oi, who the fuck’s this?” A tiny old woman, her hair wrapped around her head in a snow-white braid, appraised both Az and Jary with surprising frankness.

 

“This asshole’s the God of Death,” Sharley said, rolling her eyes. “Also known as my father.  _ This  _ one’s the God of Life, who shouldn’t even be able to  _ be  _ here.”

 

“Yeah, it was news to me, too,” Jary said dryly. “C’mon, though. You really won’t like it, but it’s gotta be said anyway.”

 

Sharley sighed, and, as ever, Jary wondered how she could do that when she didn't actually breathe. “Fine,” she said. “Is this something Lorna and Thranduil oughtta know about, too?”

 

“Yes,” her father said. “And Lord Elrond and his family, though they need not know right away.”

 

“They’re gonna  _ love  _ this. All right, fine. Hopefully Lorna and Thranduil are still halfway decent.”

 

\----

 

No matter what their parents’ current state of emotional upheaval, Saoirse and Shane quickly grew bored, and went to play in their bedroom.  _ They  _ at least had equanimity, for which Lorna was quite glad. God knew she had none at all.

 

Von Ratched. Potential immortality.  _ Von fucking Ratched _ , in their Halls, for God knew how long, and  _ ew _ . How sad was it, that that somehow outweighed  _ potential immortality _ in the ‘shocking’ department? Then again, Lorna had no personal frame of reference for the idea of immortality, whereas she had an unfortunately close personal experience with Von Shitestain. Perhaps she could be forgiven for finding him the bigger surprise.

 

She was so stunned that she barely registered Thranduil pulling her into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him. “What--” she started, but was silenced when he kissed her. It was a deep, hungry, almost desperate kiss, and she managed a slight  _ eep  _ of surprise.

 

“Thranduil, the  _ twins  _ are out there,” she protested, though her body wasn’t protesting at all. Not in the slightest.

 

“They’re occupied,” he murmured against her ear, one hand smoothing up her spine.

 

“Yeah, for now. What if one’v them needs a wee and we’re in the middle’v things?” If he kept doing what he was doing to her jaw, her restraint was not long for this world -- but seriously. Their children were two rooms away.

 

“Let me help you and this need not take long at all,” he said, and yes, there was a kind of desperation in his tone, and a healthy measure of possessiveness in his touch. It would have annoyed her if she hadn’t been trying so hard not to reciprocate it. “I influenced your mind once without your consent. Give it to me now, Firieth Dithen.”

 

Ugh, what choice did she really have? If she didn't, and something interrupted them (as was certain to be the fucking case, after a day like today), she’d just be frustrated as all hell. “Go for it,” she groaned, and gasped when the sheer force of his lust, his avarice, slammed into her like a very pleasant brick. She knew where it came from, and why she mirrored it to such a degree: yes, that bastard was in their home, and they didn't know how long he’d have to stay, but he could fuck off. They belonged to each other, and no matter what he’d done in the past, he couldn’t change that. His presence wouldn’t undo the progress she’d made.

 

This Lorna thought, but it was fleeting, because she was shortly unable to think at all. She was vaguely grateful there was a bath mat beneath her back, though he rapidly had her pushed to such heights of ecstasy that she probably wouldn’t have noticed if she’d been on broken glass. It was fortunate she was so quiet, though she had to bite his shoulder anyway when she came so hard she’d swear her breathing stopped for a moment.

 

Thranduil followed her in short order, and she could feel the thundering of his heart against her own chest. “Bloody Christ, allanah,” she managed eventually, as he rolled onto his back and pulled her close. “I need to remember you can do that in the future.”

 

She felt him smirk against her hairline. “I’m always happy to remind you. Melin gin, Firieth Dithen.”

 

“And I'd be happy to let you,” she said dryly. “Is breá liom tú, Banríon Draig Báirbre.”

 

Anything further was interrupted by hammering on the door, and she was rather glad she’d taken Thranduil up on his offer of ‘assistance’. He rose, and set her on her feet, dressing again rather more gracefully -- though he didn't have the added hassle of cleaning up certain things, so she stuck her tongue out at him when he smirked at her. Her hair was a mess, and she had a rather impressive hickey on her throat, but whatever. At least her smug husband had the grace to wait for her as she zipped up her jeans.

 

It was Sharley, she realized, as she sought out the minds of their rather unwanted guests -- Sharley and Fëanor, but two others as well, whose minds were...alien. Like,  _ really  _ alien. Not Elven, or even like Sharley.  _ Why do I think we’re going to hate this?  _ she thought.

 

_ Do your people not having a saying that bad things come in threes?  _ Thranduil asked.

 

_ Oh God, don't say that,  _ she said, and groaned aloud.  _ Whatever this is, it’d only be number two. _

 

When he opened their chamber door, there were indeed Sharley and Fëanor, but also a man as tall as Thranduil, swathed in black, and a woman of around Sharley’s height in worn jeans and a great-stained white vest top. Her skin was coppery-tan, with hair  the shade of an American penny and eyes as grey as Fëanor’s. The man, however, was nearly as pale as Sharley, and his features were very much hers in male form. Hadn’t she at one point said that her father was  _ Death _ ? Oh, good Jesus….

 

“Guys, Azarael and Jary,” Sharley said, without preamble. “Az, Jary, meet Lorna and Thranduil. Apparently we’re all gonna get bad news.”

 

“Tactful,” Azarael said, following her into the chamber. He was not as visibly curious as Jary, but neither did he seem entirely aloof as he regarded the warm, cozy room. Rather unsettlingly, his eyes were the same color and brightness as the glowing embers in the fireplace.

 

“Yeah, well, I get it from you,” she said, and though she didn't actually make a face at him, Lorna was pretty sure she was doing that on the inside. “What is it we need to know?”

 

“Is it worse than Von Ratched?” Lorna asked.

 

“And would we all like wine?” Thranduil added.

 

“Yes, and yes,” Jary said, looking from one to the other. She sat when Thranduil bade her, as did Sharley, though Azarael paced.

 

Thranduil grabbed the bottle of what Lorna knew to be his private reserve, pouring six rather overly large glasses. Even she, with the alcohol tolerance Time forgot, would be nursing  _ that  _ one a while, and she wondered what, if anything, it would do for two gods and a zombie.

 

Azarael sipped, and looked at his goblet with the faintest hint of surprised approval. “I will be blunt,” he said. “Sharley, your Memory is loose on Earth, and we cannot find it.”

 

This sentence made no sense at all to Lorna, but Sharley fumbled her goblet, wine splashing over her fingers. “ _ What?! _ ” she demanded, and Fëanor grimaced a little at the sheer volume.

 

Jary rolled her eyes. “Your Memory. It ate the other Memories and got away to Earth, and we’ve been looking for it, but we can’t find the damn thing.”

 

“Um, somebody want to explain what in bloody fuck that means?” Lorna asked, already certain she didn't actually want to know.

 

Azarael sighed. “Long ago, by your standards, there was a war,” he said. “Magic was involved, and when the inhabitants of one small town were killed, the pain and the terror of it imprinted into the very ground and walls. From it came the Memories.”

 

“Kinda like movie zombies, except smarter, not rotting, and indestructible, as far as we know,” Sharley said, openly glowering at her father. “They exist to kill and torture and terrify, and they  _ were  _ confined to Old Echo -- that’s the place they lived. But how the hell did this one get away from you?”

 

With another sip of his wine, Azarael said, “It is not truly a Memory anymore. It has become...something else, and may well continue to evolve if we do not find it.”

 

“Only good thing is, at least it won’t be making an army of the damn things,” Jary said. “Then we’d really be fucked.”

 

“Why will it not?” Thranduil asked, looking from one to the other.

 

“Because as soon as it kills someone and makes a new Memory, it eats the new one, too,” Jary said.

 

“Okay, ew,” Lorna said, and took a healthy gulp of her wine. It burned. A lot. “What does it want?”

 

“Him,” Sharley said, pointing at Fëanor. “It thinks that if it noms him, it’ll somehow be alive again.”

 

“Will it?” Lorna asked. She was sure there was a longer story behind the whole thing, but she was too sober to want to hear it.

 

“...We’re not actually sure,” Jary admitted. “It’ll be something other than a Memory. We’d better hope it  _ does  _ become something like alive, though, because if it does that, we can kill it.”

 

“Can you not kill it now?” Thranduil asked, pulling Lorna closer.

 

“No,” Azarael said. “What makes the Memories so uniquely dangerous is that they cannot be destroyed by anything save one another. Even my sword cannot undo their existence, which should not be possible.”

 

“Then why is it?” Lorna asked.

 

Sharley pinched the bridge of her nose. “Because the Other runs on impossibilities,” she said. “You’ve gotta understand, after the War, reality in that world damn near shattered. Az, Jary, and Tanya -- she’s the God of Undeath -- pieced it back together as best they could, but...well, Fëanor, you’ve been through it.”

 

“It is a fever-dream of a world,” the Elf said, and sipped his wine. “It is what one might get if one combined a nightmare and delirium.”

 

That was surprisingly poetic for someone who’d spoken English for less than a year. “So this thing has escaped out’v this fever-nightmare’v a world, and is probably eating whoever it runs across,” Lorna said. “Great. What the hell do we do about it?”

 

“Sharley must find it,” Azarael said. “It is connected to her, even if only tenuously.”

 

“Az, if you’re about to tell me I have to go on some kinda road trip, I might just hit you with something,” his daughter said, pained. “You don't get it. I’ve already had one bad piece of shit dropped on me today. I don't need two.”

 

“I would think Fëanor would enjoy a road trip,” Azarael said, eying the Elf in question.

 

Fëanor rolled his eyes. “I am no longer your daughter’s only charge. Were I alone, yes, I would enjoy a ‘road trip’, as you put it, but the Valar, for whatever reason known only to them, have decided to saddle Sharley with an unwanted Von Ratched.”

 

“Was there ever any such thing as a  _ wanted  _ Von Ratched?” Lorna asked, of no one in particular.

 

Azarael stared at his daughter, his pale face somehow going even paler, eyes molten with rage. “They have done what?” he asked softly, and Lorna shuddered, rather glad, in that moment, that she wasn’t a Vala. 

 

“Oh, here we go,” Sharley muttered. “Az, I told them I’d do it. It’s gonna suck, but I agreed to it.”

 

“Sharley...why would you do that?” he asked, less harshly. “After what he did to you, why would you allow that, even for a moment?”

 

The woman stared down into the depths of her glass. “They said they’d make me alive again,” she said. “Or, like you and Jary and Tanya, anyway. I can have a heartbeat, and breathe, and...stuff.”

 

Her father went still, and Lorna was surprised to see something she’d swear was grief flash through his hellish eyes. “They would make of you what I could not.”

 

“Pretty much,” Sharley said, sounding almost apologetic. “They offered, I said yes. But I really don't want to take that loser on a road trip.”

“Well, you’re not leaving him here,” Thranduil said flatly. “Where would this trip begin, precisely?”

 

“In the Memory’s last known location,” Jary said. “Sharley can, at least in theory, follow its Time. It stepped outta the Other into Russia.”

 

“So this is what, the Great Race?” Sharley asked. “No. No, I’m not gonna chase that thing -- I could be at it for the next twenty years. We’re gonna put up a beacon, basically, and lure it here. It wants to nom an Elf, after all -- we let it know where you are, Fëanor, and it’ll come to us.”

 

He arched one dark eyebrow at her. “Somehow, I find that less than encouraging.”

 

“It’s not like you’re ever outta my sight for very long unless you’re using the bathroom anyway,” she said. “You’re the one it wants. Dunno that it even knows Team Elrond exists, though I think it knows about Thranduil.”

 

“And what of my Halls filled with mortals?” Thranduil asked. “They would be defenseless against this thing.”

 

“They’re not gonna have to be full much longer,” she said, looking at him. “I checked in with the DMA yesterday. Things outside are going pretty damn good, all things considered, and it’s only a matter of days before more of these guys can go back out into the world. This Memory-thing wouldn’t dare cross back into the Other, so it’s not just gonna come stepping outta thin air into your Halls. And...you can feel them coming,” she added, glancing at Fëanor. “Memories don't just sneak up on you. They’re kinda...the embodiment of dread. If one’s anywhere within half a mile of you, you know it.”

 

“I still dislike the idea,” Thranduil said. “I would have to forbid the elderly, the very young, and the infirm from leaving the Halls, given the risk this thing would pose to them, and I really do not wish to know what Bridie would do if I did. Whatever it was, I am certain I would regret it.”

 

Lorna twitched. She’d really rather not find out, either, because if she’d learned anything about her Gran in the last year and a half, it was that the old lady was the kind of person who’d make you need to sleep with one eye open if you crossed them. While the Irish would automatically rebel against any form of forbidding, she was pretty sure they wouldn’t be the only ones.

 

“If the thing seeks Fëanor, can you not simply take him elsewhere, for a time?” he added.

 

“Take him where?” Sharley asked. “Thranduil, this country’s still putting itself back together. There is nowhere I can go with this that won’t have people to put in danger. And in case you haven’t noticed,  _ you’re an Elf _ . If it knows about you, it’ll come for you, too, and what’re you gonna do if I’m not here? For all we know, it’s on its way right now.”

 

Thranduil looked neither impressed nor convinced, but Lorna gave him as subtle a dig to the side as she could.  _ What if she’s right? What if that thing turns up and she’s not here to deal with it?  _

 

He didn't even bother trying to conceal his eye-roll.  _ If it refuses to cross into the Other, it cannot get in here _ , he said.  _ The thing does not walk through walls. _

 

“Can Memories walk through walls?” Lorna asked, scowling at him.

 

“No,” Azarael said, “they cannot. But should you bar your door against it, there will be no safety in opening it again, so long as the creature remains loose. All your crops will wither and die without tending.”

 

“Whereas if Fëanor and I stay, I can go after the thing, whenever it shows up.” Sharley stare was an outright challenge, and Lorna fought an urge to facepalm.

 

“You’re rather used to getting your own way, are you not?” Thranduil’s tone was dry as the Sahara.

 

She smiled, not a little wryly. “People usually give me what I want so I’ll go away.”

 

“And yet you refuse to go away now.”

 

Lorna caught the uneasiness from her husband’s mind, and knew just where it came from. Sharley, being what she was, couldn’t be  _ made  _ to do anything. If she wanted to stay, there was nothing they could really do about it.

 

“It will be safer, if more aggravating, if she does not,” Azarael said. “I would stay myself, but I need a word with Námo. I would know just why the Valar have seen fit to inflict that  _ creature  _ upon you.”

 

It said something, that he could speak of Von Ratched with more contempt than he could that...Memory, or whatever it was. Creepy thought he was, Lorna found herself more kindly disposed toward him.

 

“They were somewhat vague,” Thranduil said. “Evidently, he is meant to learn something. What, or how, I could not begin to tell you.”

 

“Az, d’you really think they’ll tell you?” Jary asked, eying him.

 

He smirked at her. “Once they can bear my presence no longer, I'm certain they will.”

 

Sharley snorted. “Knew I got it from somewhere. Lorna, I'll keep Von Ratched outta your hair. If we’re lucky, Memory!me will actually turn up, and nom him.”

 

“Yeah, well, I just need to go back home,” Jary said. “Nice visiting and all, but I’ve got a ship to mind. C’mon, Az. You go make the Valar sorry they ever met you.”

 

_ Why do I think this will not end well?  _  Thranduil asked, glancing at Lorna.  _ The Lords and Ladies are benevolent and kind, but I cannot see them brooking insolence overly well. _

 

_ If Azarael’s on their level, power-wise, I’m not sure they have a choice,  _ she said.  _ They could boot him out, I suppose, but could they  _ keep  _ him out? _

 

_ Aman is their realm. I have little doubt they could, should they choose to. _

 

One of her eyebrows rose.  _ ‘Little doubt’? Not ‘no doubt’? _

 

_ That he managed to not only enter Aman, but bring his undead daughter, suggests that it might not be so cut-and-dried as that. I would not have thought there could exist any pantheon outside of the Lords and Ladies, but he and this Jary are assuredly not Valar, and Sharley  _ definitely  _ is not. And yet they wield and contain a level of power I would not have thought possible in any but a Vala. It troubles me, Firieth Dithen, even more than the presence of that wretched Von Ratched. _

 

_ Heh _ , she said.  _ Von Wretched. There’s his new name. _

 

Thranduil couldn’t help but smile. They had to find some humor in this, or it would drive them mad.

 

“Oh, I have every intention of it,” Azarael said, rising. “I have -- or had -- utmost respect for Námo. His task is far more difficult than mine; I merely send the dead onward, but he yet holds many Elves in his care. And yet, that he would do this to Sharley...it sits beyond ill with me. I will have my answers, one way or another.”

 

The threat in his voice was so blatant that Lorna twitched a little. She sure as hell wouldn’t want him pissed at her, even if she was...whatever the Valar were, exactly. Gods? Angels? Somebody knew, and it wasn’t her. He made her even more nervous than Sharley did, because at least Sharley had once been human.

 

The rather strange little group departed shortly thereafter, leaving Lorna and Thranduil alone, staring at one another. “So,” she said, after a long pause, “ _ that _ happened.”

 

“Bullshit,” Saoirse said happily, toddling into her parents’ room.

 

“Exactly right, my girlie,” Lorna said, picking her up. “It is indeed bullshit.”

 

Her little daughter yawned, and she wondered if the kids should be put to bed here, or in their big room. This flat hadn’t been built to house more than one couple, and the twins’ ‘bedroom’ was actually half of Thranduil’s study, the desk and chair pushed far to the side so the rest could be walled off with curtains. It had been fine when they were babies, but they were well out of the bassinet stage now, and she was almost grieved to find they functioned quite well at night without their parents near.

 

_ They will be fine in their room,  _ Thranduil said.  _ Certainly, they will not be curious about the sounds coming from Mam and Adar’s bedroom. _

 

Lorna arched an eyebrow.  _ Sounds, huh?  _ She was definitely not averse to the idea, especially after a day like today; forgetting it for a while sounded like a wonderful proposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, poor everyone. Even Von Ratched is going to hate life in very short order.
> 
> Title means ‘Unwelcome Guests and Unwelcome News’ in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my soul. Om nom.


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